


Of Keys and Trowels, Agents and Cowls

by C6H12O6



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Q, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Injury, James Bond Being James Bond, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Moneypenny is a Daughter of the Clayr, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Q Has a Cat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:15:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5699725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C6H12O6/pseuds/C6H12O6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>YOU DO NOT HAVE TO HAVE READ THE OLD KINGDOM TO UNDERSTAND/READ THIS STORY. </p><p>James Bond is a Royal Agent of MI, an elite subsection of the Royal Guard that helps keep the Queen informed of, and on occasion, intervene in certain situations that may cause damage to the Kingdom's citizens or stability. </p><p>When a new threat arises from the North, the fate of the Kingdom may rest in the hands of a single Royal Agent, Agent 007, and the enigmatic new Quartermaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. James Bond: Royal Agent

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, I give tribute to the original authors and owners of the characters and work:  
> • James Bond and all associated characters belong to Ian Fleming, Eon Productions, etc.  
> • The Old Kingdom, Mogget, and all associations belong to Garth Nix.
> 
> I also apologize in advance for any spelling or grammatical errors: this work has not been betaed!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until the plot of the story gets going, the chapters are relatively short, and comparatively boring, because they are primarily providing background information.

As was customary tradition with the paternal side of the Bond family, James Bond had been granted a baptismal Charter mark at birth.

Bond's mother was an emigrant from northern Ancelstierre. His father, a member of the Royal Guard, had met his mother, an ambassador, during diplomatic meetings between the two countries.

Even before accepting his father's proposal for marriage, Bond's mother had fully embraced the life, culture, and traditions within the Kingdom. She bore a Charter mark, and had happily traded light bulbs and pens in favor of oil lamps and quills. However, she had insisted on one Ancelstierran tradition: naming her by granting him both a given name—James—and a surname—Bond.

Bond's young childhood years had been carefree and happy. The large house, his family's comfortable wealth, and the boundless love of his parents left him wanting for nothing; but, at the age of nine, a tragic and devastating calamity befell Bond's blissful world, and, quite suddenly, he found himself an orphan.

Subsequently, he had been unofficially adopted by a small, mobile squadron of the Royal Guard, with whom he spent the remainder of his childhood. Under their vigilant and protective guardianship, he grew, until he was of legal age to formally decide his future.

His nomadic travels with the squadron granted him the opportunity to master many assorted skills. The preponderance of those skills were what one would expect a young lad to gain whilst traveling amongst an itinerant squadron of royal guards: combat techniques both with and without weaponry, and wilderness survival tactics. As well as honing practical skills, such as gaining mastery over every weapon the squadron had at its disposal—from broadsword to arbalest—Bond also acquired a variety of other mismatched abilities. Amongst these were keen strategies involved in various card and board games, and tricks that appeared magical, but merely involved a dexterous slide of hand. Bond was eager to learn anything and everything he could from the squadron, and his adoptive "family" was only too happy to oblige the inexhaustible, ebullient interest of their spirited, young orphan.

In addition to all of the novel skills Bond gained from the members of the squadron, he was never allowed to forget the prim, genteel way to behave when in the company of those that expected propriety. He had been raised in such an environment, before being orphaned, as his mother had been a diplomat. Furthermore, despite being surrounded by the nonjudgmental ears of the untamed wilderness for a great majority of the time, his adoptive "family" were all proud, disciplined members of the Royal Guard, and, therefore, had more gentility, order, and decorum than ordinary soldiers or mercenaries. Bond was also granted opportunities to actively practice the art of etiquette when the squadron passed through large, prosperous towns dominated by wealthy bourgeoisie.

Though being amongst a mobile squadron of the Royal Guard may not have, on the surface, seemed a safe setting for a young orphan to be raised, Bond was under the competent custodianship of a well-trained entourage of royal guards, some of whom were seasoned veterans, and all of whom that were fiercely protective of their adopted orphan. Bond could not have wished for a more stimulating and satisfying environment for a tireless, sprightly boy to flourish while being nurtured and properly guided within the chivalrous, regimented structure of the Royal Guard.

As Bond grew older, he came to realize that, although his presence amongst his adoptive squadron of royal guards was ostensibly a secret, it could not have gone unnoticed by those with the authority and power to abruptly sever Bond's association with his new "family" with ease. If the crown had truly wanted it so, Bond would have been separated from his adoptive "family," but, instead, a blind eye had been cast upon the boy traveling with the peripatetic squadron.

Years later, his suspicions had been confirmed.

It was brusquely explained to Bond that the secret had been better kept than he had initially suspected, much to the chagrin of those in charge of gathering intelligence on all matters within the Kingdom. By the time Bond's unofficial adoption had come to the attention of those who could have ordered Bond placed into an appropriate foster home, it was apparent the members of the squadron had grown as attached to him as he had to them. The decision had been made to leave the matter be; as long as the squadron continued to serve the Royal Guard with the same dutiful competence and loyalty they had before they had, "picked up a stray," there had been no reason to expend the time, energy, and resources it would doubtlessly have required to forcefully separate Bond from his adoptive squadron. The fact that his late father had distant blood ties with the royal family may have also played a role, but Bond did not push for more information. What was past was past, and whatever the ultimate reason or reasons behind the leniency granted to both Bond and the squadron that had adopted him, he was glad for their existence, and grateful he had been allowed to remain with his unusual, surrogate "family."

The Royal Guard had also ultimately benefitted from their decision. In addition to the wide variety of skills he had learned through years of traveling with an itinerant squadron of the Royal Guard, Bond had been instilled with a fierce loyalty to the Royal Guard and the Kingdom it worked tirelessly to protect. It was, therefore, unsurprising that when he finally did come of age, Bond officially enlisted in the Royal Guard, with the intention of continuing to serve as a member of a nomadic squadron such as the one that had raised him, to protect the Kingdom and its people. However, instead of achieving his original aim, he found himself recruited to a position that fulfilled his patriotic and itinerant desires to an extent he had not previously even dreamed was possible. This position was within a much more clandestine branch of the Royal Guard: MI.

MI was an abbreviation for her Majesty's Information. This covert royal agency worked beneath the obvious, public business and politics of the Kingdom. Matters which often required the utmost discretion and expeditious, adroit efficiency were dealt with by this organization. As such, this organization worked closely with the Clayr to keep matters within the Kingdom peaceful, often without the general population ever even knowing of their intervention.

Despite being shrouded in secrecy, MI was not entirely unknown to the citizens of the Kingdom. However, except for the vague knowledge that MI gathered information for the Queen, no further functions of MI were known, nor were they in any danger of being revealed. Rumors speculating on the topic of MI gave a clear indication of MI's successful ability to keep its operations sub rosa. Such rumors ranged from complete disbelief in MI's existence to the absurd idea that MI knew the exact nature and location of any and all Charter spells cast within the entire Kingdom.

\---

In spite of his late mother's talent with Charter Magic, while growing up, Bond himself had little interest in the tedious art of memorizing Charter marks and stringing them together to cast spells. The few times Bond had tried his hand at spell casting in his youth, the magical arts did not seem to come to him easily. Charter spells certainly did not flow for him as they had for his mother, or for those whose businesses somehow centered around magic and spell casting, with whom he had brief encounters during his travels with the peripatetic squadron.

Bond incorrectly assumed all Charter Magic was essentially the same, and ineptitude in one area signified ineptitude in all areas. In actuality, Bond harbored an untapped aptitude for Charter Magic of which he had been entirely unaware until his formal induction into the Royal Guard and the subsequent onset of his official training.

Had a single member of Bond's adoptive squadron been proficient enough to teach him Charter spells, he may have discovered this latent talent for battle magic sooner, but, despite the fact that every royal guard bore a Charter mark upon their forehead, not a single member of Bond's adoptive "family" was particularly gifted with Charter Magic. The baptismal Charter mark every member of the Royal Guard bore was mandated to grant them the ability to sense the difference between Free Magic and Charter Magic, but provided neither additional skill nor talent to those without the necessary natural aptitude for casting spells.

Unfortunately for Bond, amongst the squadron of royal guards that had adopted the orphaned lad, not one had been capable enough to cast even the most basic spells reliably. In addition to that, it was common knowledge that a badly cast spell might not simply fall apart harmlessly, but possessed the potential to rearrange itself into a pattern that could cause an explosion capable of blasting off one's fingers or causing other such catastrophic damage. This alone was enough to dissuade members of the squadron from pushing their luck by attempting magic beyond their meager skills.

Casting Charter spells could be dangerous even amongst Charter Mages. Attempting to utilize a Charter mark over which a Charter Mage did not yet possess mastery would invariably result in repercussions that ranged from markedly uncomfortable to potentially fatal. In scenarios of least concern, a Charter Mage might a cast spell that included a mark only slightly beyond his or her capability to maintain control, and, in the process, would earn a painfully sore throat or a burnt hand. In the worst cases, overambitious Charter Mages could stop their own hearts or burn themselves from the inside out during an attempt to utilize magic beyond the boundaries of their ability to handle.

The squadron had heard enough tales of spells gone awry, and had had enough close shaves of their own, to make casting even the most simple spells something the squadron was not often willing to risk. Any attempt to teach Bond what little they did know of spell casting was, therefore, out of the question.

However, once Bond formally enlisted in the Royal Guard, he found he was quite adept with battle magic.

Under the tutelage of a magister that specialized in teaching new recruits who displayed any promise with casting Charter Magic spells, Bond learned all the Charter spells regularly taught to royal guards with a knack for Charter Magic at an astonishingly expeditious pace. It was because of this unusual aptitude, in addition to his not insignificant physical prowess and impressive mastery of a wide variety of weapons, that MI took an interest in him.

Recruits to the Royal Guard possessing the ability to cast simple spells were not uncommon, but those with a proficiency to cast spells beyond elementary wards and the like were rare. Bond was one of these rarities, and, therefore, an asset the Royal Guard was not keen to waste in the placement of an ordinary position.

Bond was given the option of training to become one of the Queen's private escorts, after a stint working as a palace guard, or becoming one of MI's royal agents. As the Queen seldom left the capital, and Bond had no desire to remain bound within the walls of one city for the rest of his life—even one as large and grand as Belisaere—he chose the latter.

He was not at all disappointed to learn he would not be called upon to stretch his abilities with Charter Magic beyond his area of expertise. Bond was a man of action. He preferred to live in the moment, and spells that could aid him in a practical manner were the ones for which he displayed a natural talent and predilection. The thought of endlessly practicing the utilization of Charter marks that did not easily flow into a spell for him in order to master them, or the task of puzzling out the function of ancient marks whose uses had been lost to time held little or no interest for him.

Although Bond's casting abilities were far from shoddy in the areas of Charter Magic over which he did hold some mastery, he could not truly be called a Charter Mage, due to the limited scope of what spells he regularly practiced. Fortunately, what magical skills he did possess were exactly the sort a royal agent would benefit from knowing. Not only was he gifted in combat magic, but had an uncanny ability to sense Free Magic, which had more than once saved his life from a crafty Free Magic construct or sorcerer.

Within the clandestine organization of MI, Bond rapidly rose through the ranks, and was now a seasoned member of one of only nine specialized, elite royal agents, known famously in the organization by the two zeros preceding their numerical codename. The 00 agents were notorious for their prowess, ability, efficiency, and license to kill without the special authorization of the organization's leader: M.

Bond's particular codename was, "007." Upon his promotion to a 00 agent, Bond had inherited the codename from a predecessor who had earned a comfortable retirement, which he instead spent training new field agents, much to M's combined consternation and gratitude. It was unsurprisingly unusual for a 00 agent—whose missions predominantly put the agent in mortal peril—to reach retirement, but Bond's predecessor had, and because of this, Bond considered his new codename a token of good fortune.

 


	2. Agents, Quartermasters, and the Dead

In spite of the fact that it technically fell under the duty of the Abhorsen, it was not uncommon for a 00 agent to dispatch a necromancer or a dead creature when given the chance. Though entering Death and its treacherous Nine Precincts was solely the jurisdiction of the Abhorsen or the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, necromancers and the Dead that trespassed into Life could sometimes be dealt with by skilled agents. The current Abhorsen was getting on in years, and expressed her gratitude whenever the aid of royal agents could ease her heavy burden.

With the help of weaponry and tools specifically designed to aid in the binding of such creatures, Free Magic constructs could additionally be effectively dealt with by MI. These weapons, and all the ensorcelled tools any agent of MI was granted, came from a segment of MI called Q branch.

This division of MI was entirely made up of scholars and Charter Mages, all of whom were knowledgable and skilled in the crafting of ensorcelled objects, such as weapons enchanted with spells of permanent sharpness and resistance to rusting.

Q branch was headed by a man granted the title of Quartermaster. The present Quartermaster was the most powerful Charter Mage Bond had ever met, save for the Abhorsen herself. Although more than capable in all areas of Charter Magic, the Quartermaster's true prowess lay in the making and enchanting of inanimate objects. His name was Boothroyd, though he was most often simply referred to by the title of Quartermaster, or his codename, "Q."

As far as Bond, and many others in MI were concerned, Boothroyd quite possibly possessed the prowess and skill of the legendary Wallmakers of old. Boothroyd himself had never confirmed nor denied such claims, but Bond assumed this was due to a combination of humility and a belief that the title of Wallmaker was unnecessary to his work.

In the earliest days of the Kingdom, thousands of years ago, the Wallmakers had devoted themselves to the building of the Wall and the Great Charter Stones beneath the palace that were themselves a physical manifestation of part the Charter itself, as well as many other historic structures, legendary weapons, and objects of great power. Their blood, sweat, and entire lives had quite literally gone into making those iconic structures. Because of the Wallmakers' devotion to their work, the bloodline was considered extinct. However, from time to time, perhaps once every couple of centuries, a Wallmaker was born. However, their gifts were not often recognized for what they truly were, and the Wallmaker was not recognized as anything beyond a brilliant Chater Mage with a penchant for being exceptionally skilled in the art of creation as a craftsman or craftswoman. The belief as to the reason Wallmakers were so seldom born was that the Wallmakers' blood had gone into the construction of the Wall and the Great Charter Stones, and with the completion of those mighty structures, the Wallmakers' duty to the Charter had been fulfilled. Fortunately for MI, Boothroyd's skills had been both recognized, and subsequently garnered for the good of the Kingdom.

While the Quartermaster's second in command, codenamed, "R," and his other underlings dealt with outfitting most royal agents, the Quartermaster himself managed the dispersion and collection of weapons and tools directly amongst the elite royal agents, such as the 00s, so Bond had gotten to know him quite well over his years of service.

Boothroyd's hair had already mostly gone white when Bond first met the man, and, after many years serving as MI's Quartermaster, Boothroyd was openly nearing retirement.

Unlike Bond's predecessor, Boothroyd had no qualms about accepting a quiet, comfortable retirement. Bond suspected this was because Boothroyd's retirement likely involved an agreement to grant him the ability to easily continue studying arcane magic at his leisure. However, Bond chose not to pry, lest the man's chosen retirement location be deemed compromised and necessitate relocation to a less favorable venue. As it was, Boothroyd was dutifully and genially preparing the agents and Q branch for his departure.

Boothroyd's chosen successor was soon to inherit the position of Quartermaster, the codename, "Q," and all the responsibilities those titles entailed. Yet, for someone ostensibly holding a high-ranking position within Q branch, Boothroyd's successor was the seldom seen by anyone besides M, Boothroyd, or other similarly secretive individuals of MI, such as M's Chief of Staff, Tanner, or M's personal secretary and direct connection with the Clayr, Moneypenny.

From what Bond had been able to glean from rumor and hearsay, Boothroyd's successor was a Charter Mage even more powerful than Boothroyd himself. Despite the fact that Bond would miss Boothroyd—even the exasperated lectures he received after he lost tools or brought back damaged equipment following a mission—Bond was curious about Boothroyd's recondite successor. His curiosity was especially whetted by the fact that whomever he or she was, Boothroyd's successor had a hand as equally influential and important as Boothroyd's himself in designing many of the tools supplied to field agents.

Since Bond had been recruited, tools that had been granted to agents only under very special, usually dire circumstances—such as weapons enchanted with spells that could slay a dead creature and send it well on its way to a final death, as well as the ability to somewhat resist the generally corrosive effects of Free Magic—had been given to field agents with increasing frequency, until providing field agents with such tools on any mission became unspoken standard procedure. More recently still, weapons previously reserved only for Charter Mages sent along with an escort of agents on missions that required the use of skilled Charter Magic were gradually becoming more commonly granted to agents, despite the fact that any agent without the knowledge and training of Charter Magic necessary to bring forth the weapon's power would only benefit from carrying such a weapon by using it as a bluff. This included weapons forged with the addition of powerful Charter spells specifically used to aid in binding Free Magic constructs. Carrying a weapon with those capacities boasted the agent holding the weapon did indeed possess binding abilities, even if they did not, and that had been enough to frighten off or stall a Free Magic construct long enough for the agent to make an escape.

As Free Magic beings often possessed enough intelligence for self-preservation, many agents that would have been otherwise lost to Free Magic constructs had been saved by using the bluff provided by drawing a weapon bespelled to aid in binding. Afterwards, the agent would report the details and location of the encounter, and either the Abhorsen or a capable Charter Mage would be dispatched to bind the dangerous creature. However, the craftier ones did not often remain in the same location after being discovered.

Less powerful or less intelligent Free Magic beings often found it difficult to travel far from where they had been discovered, so many missions initiated by an agent's information on a Free Magic construct did not prove fruitless.

It was definitely serendipitous that MI was able to take a more active role in aiding the Abhorsen, as the past couple years had seen a definite uptick in the average number of attacks by necromancers and the Dead.

Though this phenomenon had been noted by the public, it was more often than not brushed off as a bad couple of years. However, the true level of the increase was not general knowledge, as many incidents had been discreetly dealt with by MI. The disturbing pattern was causing well-founded apprehension amongst those privy to the information. The matter of greatest concern was the possibility of novice necromancers unwittingly allowing Greater Dead creatures back into Life.

\---

The Dead were separated into two broad groups: the Greater Dead and the Lesser Dead.

The Greater Dead were creatures of immense power that sometimes found their way back to Life. Unlike Free Magic beings, these monstrosities had once been human, and retained every bit of the intellect and wisdom they had before their death. Although many lost some memory of their former life, they gained unnatural powers from their time spent prowling Death's deep precincts, and possessed the ruthless cunning necessary to survive in the hostile environments they endured, wading through Death without passing beyond the Final Gate. Fortunately, these beings rarely entered Life, and were a hazard to necromancers far more often than a threat to the living. Beings with enough power to be called one of the Greater Dead seemed to gain their power within the deepest precincts of Death, where they were barred from Life by the Gates that separated each of Death's Nine distinct Precincts. The Gates grew increasingly unyielding the farther one went from Life into Death. In those depths, the Greater Dead preyed upon careless or unwary necromancers in order to augment their power.

While it was not impossible for a truly powerful necromancer to command one of the Greater Dead, it was a gamble many necromancers were not willing to take. A Greater Dead being could easily be attempting a ploy by obeying a necromancer only as a means to escape the confines of Death. Once in the First or Second Precinct, the Greater Dead being could break free and devour the necromancer that had so unwisely chosen to attempt to bind it to his or her will.

There was a gradient between spirits that constituted the terrifyingly powerful Greater Dead to the relatively easily banished Lesser Dead.

Necromancers knew that the farther one traveled into Death, the more powerful a restless spirit could be. For example, denizens of the Second Precinct were not anywhere near as powerful as those of the Fifth Precinct. The caveat to that was the fact that a spirit could manage to make its way to a precinct from which it did not gain the majority of its power. Fortunately, such migration was most common amongst the first four precincts, and far rarer anywhere beyond.

The Lesser Dead included most of the creatures a necromancer would ordinarily call upon from Death, as well as some of weak, dead creatures that had managed to weasel their way from Death back to Life by luck more than power.

Spirits that inhabited dead bodies were amongst the Lesser Dead, and fell into two overlapping categories.

First, there were the tenacious, free-willed spirits that refused to accept their own death and clung to Life, and rebelled against the current of the river of Death. If pulled through a Gate, these restless spirits would sneak back through a Gate opened by a necromancer, or ride along with one of the Greater Dead, like a remora clinging to a shark. They would then lurk just beside Life, waiting for a doorway to Life to open enough to allow them to slip through, step out of the icy river of Death, and sally forth back into Life to find a vacated body to inhabit.

They would most often linger at locations where a doorway between Life and Death was left ajar. A doorway could be left ajar for an assortment of reasons. The most well-known reasons for this phenomenon to occur were at locations where many deaths had occurred, or where many bodies had been buried. However, unless the death toll had been high enough to allow the door from Life to Death to open more than just a crack, these relatively weak, if determined, spirits could not use them to make their way back into Life. They could do no more than simply continue waiting for a sufficiently open doorway to appear, through which they could make their escape.

Both fortunately and unfortunately for these spirits, these locations were understandably the most common places for necromancers to enter Death, as it required the least effort and energy to pass from Life to Death where the separation between the two was already compromised. In the case of a site where many deaths had recently occurred, it also provided many dead spirits for a necromancer to reap to serve their nefarious purposes.

The doorways necromancers opened could allow these free-willed spirits, who had so obstinately refused to follow the current of Death, a way to escape into Life. However, it was often not on their own terms. It was unlikely they would manage to escape forced servitude to the necromancer who had opened the doorway to step into Death. More often than not, instead of the escape to and freedom in Life they intended, these spirits became the servants of necromancers. A necromancer could bind their allegiance through Free Magic spells and subsequently place them into a body, tear them apart and place fragments of their spirit into several bodies, or grant them the power to move in Life completely bodiless. Despite their wish of entering Life being fulfilled, the spirits would no longer retain the free will that had previously sustained them and kept them from their final death for so long.

Any dead body inhabited by a spirit that had unnaturally emerged from Death, whether under a necromancer's control or by means of its own free will, would subsequently become misshapen or deformed to resemble the form of a spirit warped by a long sojourn in Death, or the molestation of a necromancer's malevolent power.

Spirits forcibly brought from Death and placed into a body by a necromancer were the second variety of spirits that inhabited the bodies of the deceased. As their sole purpose was to serve their necromantic master, they were called Dead Hands. Although some of the spirits forced to animate corpses by a necromancer were previously free-willed spirits unlucky enough to be bound to servitude, the spirits used to create Hands were predominantly enslaved spirits of the recently departed. Newly deceased spirits were both conveniently close to Life, and had not yet had the time to accept, adjust, and adapt to their death, making them easy targets. In the process of creating Dead Hands, the intelligence and humanity of spirits collected and enslaved were torn away, and they became no more than servile, animated corpses with an insatiable lust for life.

Dead Hands were not the only creatures a sufficiently capable necromancer could bring forth from Death, but, due to the relative simplicity involved in their creation, and the ease with which a necromancer could exert complete control over these animated corpses, they were the most common minions for a necromancer to possess.

One trait shared amongst all of the Dead, Greater and Lesser alike, was the need to feed upon the living in some way in order to sustain their unnatural presence in Life.

In the case of spirits that required bodies to inhabit, such as Dead Hands, "feeding on the living" was a literal affair. Hands would absorb the energy they required by devouring living flesh and blood to absorb a victim's strength and vitality.

Bodiless Shadow Hands were less brutish in the absorption of vitality from a living victim, but no less ruthless. The victims they left behind were not half-eaten corpses, but bloodless, desiccated bodies that appeared to have aged far beyond their years.

 


	3. Meeting the Abhorsen

While MI could handle most manifestations of the Lesser Dead, some necromancers, and even Free Magic constructs, it was near impossible to defeat one of the Greater Dead, even amongst the most powerful Charter Mages.

Bond had only heard confirmation of the Greater Dead entering Life thrice throughout his career with MI. The first time had been within months of accepting the position of a royal agent. Both the second and third of confirmed sightings of the Greater Dead had taken place during the past year.

During the first battle with the Greater Dead of which he had heard, a 00 agent died, which solidly put the serious nature of such horrendous creatures in perspective for Bond.

Bond never met the agent, but learned posthumously that she had been a gifted Charter Mage in addition to the obvious skill which allowed her to hold the esteemed position and title of a 00 agent. The 006 that replaced her, Trevelyan, was near the same age as Bond, and, because the two had been promoted near the same time, they often trained together. Trevelyan was not inept in the practice of Charter Magic, but he was not nearly as gifted as Bond, so Bond tutored him when the two had corresponding downtime in Belisaere. In exchange, Trevelyan provided Bond with a challenging sparring partner; Trevelyan was a Berserk.

The two had met directly following the Farewell Ceremony for the 00 agent Trevelyan replaced, and neither ever forgot the gravity of such a battle or that a similar fate could one day await them. Fortunately for all the agents of MI, though there had likely been more Greater Dead seeking Life than those that terrorized the Kingdom on those three known occasions, the Abhorsen or Abhorsen-in-Waiting had driven them to their final death before they had an opportunity to cause harm to any citizens of the Kingdom.

However, the sudden appearance of two Greater Dead in a single year, in addition to the rising trend of necromancers and the Dead was more than a little disquieting.

Dealing with these troubling matters concerning necromancy and the Dead should be the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, but, in all his years of service, Bond had only once actually seen the Abhorsen's successor, and that had been in passing, when he had been a fresh recruit to the Royal Guard, not yet approached by MI.

The Abhorsen-in-Waiting had been just a child then, with dark brown hair, and only the tiniest bit of an otherwise healthy tan leeched away, as it had not yet been fully bleached by numerous, inevitable excursions into Death. Even with the unavoidable future of many treks and expeditions into Death's precincts, the lad's skin would never quite reach the same pallid shade as his predecessor's, due to the boy's slightly darker base complexion; he would probably appear sun-starved and sallow, rather than merely extremely pale. Despite what promised to become a streamlined, even-featured face as the boy matured, which would align with an Abhorsen's typical appearance, lad's other aberrant traits made it obvious his heritage was mixed; he did not display many of the typical features of the pure Abhorsen bloodline, such as naturally fair skin, and straight, jet-black hair. Tan, small, and gawky, the boy bore nearly no resemblance at all to the tall, slender, and elegant Abhorsen. Her own features aligned perfectly with those of the Abhorsen bloodline, although, even back then, the Abhorsen's once-black hair was streaked with grey. The color reminded Bond of ash mixed with the burnt remains of wood the morning after a campfire had been allowed to burn itself out.

Despite the grey in her hair, she was not the least bit encumbered by age. The Abhorsen was uniquely, yet undeniably, beautiful, bearing the same aquiline features the young boy would when he aged. There was an obvious, controlled power in her every movement, both magical and physical. Underneath the navy blue surcoat she wore, lean musculature was evident, in a fashion powerfully reminiscent of the way the sinuous muscles of a panther rippled beneath its dark, sleek fur.

Well known, respected, and loved by the people of the Kingdom, she did not need the repeated pattern of silver keys of the Abhorsen upon her surcoat or the bandolier of necromantic bells strapped across her chest to denote her station and the heavy responsibility it entailed. The Abhorsen's duty to the Kingdom was to undo the chaos necromancers wrought, to banish the Dead to Death where they belonged, and to defend the people against Free Magic sorcerers and constructs. She strode with purpose, an economy of force held in each movement. Her life of danger had granted her an unrelenting magisterial presence, but she spared a kind smile for Bond as the new recruit bowed to show his respect.

In stark contrast to the Abhorsen's effortless stride, the boy's pace was uneven. If she was a panther, he was a wide-eyed, ungainly, little kit. The young Abhorsen-in-Waiting curiously examined everything as he ambled beside his mentor, his eyes flicking from the ceiling to the floor to the windows to the walls. He slowed whenever something especially caught his keen interest, and was forced to hurry along a few steps afterwards to return to the Abhorsen's side, as his hand was firmly secured within the Abhorsen's grasp. Bond would not have been surprised to see him trip over his own feet if he continued to proceed along that distracted, stop-start pace. If he eventually did, Bond did not see it happen, as the pair rounded a corner soon after, leaving Bond alone in the palace corridor, struggling to recall where he had been heading before the unexpected encounter.

Bond had come to find that his experience with the enigmatic Abhorsen-in-Waiting was not unusual: the Abhorsen-in-Waiting had been more or less unseen since he had been brought before the royal family to make his formal greeting.

There were plenty of tales of him fighting various Dead, necromancers, or Free Magic constructs but no one seemed to be able to give an accurate account of what his explicit actions had been, or even of his exact age or appearance. He remained an enigma, almost to the point of being an urban legend.

Were all old, powerful Charter Mages queerly cryptic and secretive about their successors, or did the current Abhorsen and Boothroyd simply share that particular trait?

Had Bond not seen the child and noted the boy not only bore no physical resemblence at all to the fair-skinned Queen, but also appeared far too close in age to the prince for such a possiblity, he might have briefly entertained the notion that the Abhorsen-in-Waiting had initially been kept out of the limelight because he had been an illegitimate son of hers, born to her with a father who was a member of the Abhorsen's extended family and carried Abhorsen blood. Although the present Abhorsen was purely of Abhorsen lineage, Abhorsens in the past had been born with the blood of the Clayr running through their veins, or had been the offspring of a King or Queen, which would then add the seven-pointed star that was the sigil of the Clayr or the golden tower that denoted the Royal Line to the silver keys upon the their surcoats, respectively. Despite any mixing of blood, and regardless of whatever sigil might join the silver keys upon the thick fabric, the ability to wear an Abhorsen's surcoat, imbued as the garment was with Charter Magic, meant the wearer could not escape the destiny that ultimately tied them to the station of Abhorsen, until they were released from the position by either death or by passing the title on to a willing Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Generally, the latter only occurred when a potential new Abhorsen-in-Waiting had already been discovered, and could begin training, as the Kingdom needed an Abhorsen and the promise of his or her successor. Unfortunately, an Abhorsen-in-Waiting much more often came into the office of Abhorsen when their predecessor died. The lives of Abhorsens were not often short, as they were always unequivocally gifted Charter Mages possessing the additional senses and talents unique to those with Abhorsen blood, but, like 00 agents, their lives usually ended in battle, for with their station came the responsibility to face dangers of great and terrible evils. This made the necessity of an Abhorsen-in-Waiting of paramount importance, as the Abhorsen's life was constantly put at risk, and the Kingdom simply could not be without an Abhorsen.

This alone made the idea of the Abhorsen-in-Waiting being a child of the Queen not only unlikely, but a veritable impossiblity. The potential danger of not having a competent Abhorsen-in-Waiting far outweighed the controversy an illegitimately conceived child that could cause. In addition, although it was a thankfully rare occurrence, bastard children in the Royal Family had been born in the past, and, despite the unpopularity for such an event, they were never hidden nor kept secret. It would be more shameful to keep such a thing hidden than to admit the truth. With each year that past, the idea that the child was directly related to the Queen grew more and more implausible, as the need for the publicly visible and politically useful presence of an Abhorsen-in-Waiting amplified.

This was an especially dangerous time to be without the reliability of an Abhorsen-in-Waiting. There was trouble brewing in the Northwest, and some formal investigation could have been enlisted to assuage the citizen's fears, as the clandestine efforts MI was setting in motion were to remain secret. The Abhorsen was presently handling an affair in the South, somewhere between Uppside and Edge, the Prince was occupied with a formal diplomatic engagement in Navis with several ambassadors from beyond the Rift, and the Princess was receiving training from some of the Clayr's most powerful mages at the Clayr's Glacier, while simultaneously covertly awaiting any new, vital information that could arise from the Clayr's visions at any moment. The Princess was also enjoying some time with her lover, one of the graceful seeresses of the Clayr; however, although this aspect of the Princess' visit to the Glacier was not ostensibly a secret, it remained unknown to many outside the Clayr or the few Royal Guards directly charged with accompanying and protecting the Princess. Since the Queen would obviously have to stay in the capital with both other members of the royal family elsewhere, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting was the obvious choice to formally look into the troubling matters to which Bond himself was now headed.

The Abhorsen-in-Waiting was, by Bond's estimation, now in his early thirties, and should be competent enough to take a more openly active role in the business of an Abhorsen. More important to the present political situation, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting should have been publicly dealing with matters of unrest within the Kingdom years ago, where he could be irrefutably seen protecting the Kingdom by citizens in order to instill a level of faith in his power to keep them protected and safe, as was his duty. It was possible—likely, even, when Bond stopped to think about it—that the Abhorsen-in-Waiting was indeed hard at work, but in the proverbial shadows, much like MI, and that there was a good reason for it. Unfortunately, such secretive and unseen conduct, no matter how vital to the Kingdom's welfare it might be, was of little political use, and allowed for too many unfounded theories of his possible death, or other such catastrophes that would leave the Kingdom without a proper Abhorsen when the current Abhorsen past through the Ninth Gate herself. However, the work of Abhorsens had always been somewhat shrouded in mystery. The Dead and Free Magic were, to the general populous, horrifying, but not often intimately understood, leaving fortuitous leeway for cryptic secrecy that sometimes bordered on the occult. Even agents, boffins, guards, and other members of MI did not know much about Death itself, save for those of the highest rank and clearance, despite field agents often being provided with weapons that could successfully combat the Dead. Therefore, mere stories of the Abhorsen-in-Waiting providing aid when needed, whether true or not, were enough to quell most rumors of his untimely demise, and put general public faith into the puzzlingly enigmatic successor of the aging Abhorsen.

When asked about the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, the current Abhorsen would simply smile and say, "He is attending to other business." What business could be more important than fighting necromancers, the reawakened Dead, and Free Magic constructs, the agent chose not to dwell upon.

At the moment, Bond was focusing on the details of mission at hand.


	4. Libertas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally get into the actual plot here!

M had sent Bond disguised as a simple member in a band of mercenaries, ostensibly hired to protect small towns, villages, and homesteads in the far Northwest reaches of the Kingdom, where a group of radical separatists had arisen. His true mission's purpose was to gather information on the small faction of radicals bent on seceding from the Kingdom to create their own separate nation they had named "Libertas."

The Clayr had Seen that, without intervention, the situation would soon rapidly devolve into acts of increasing violence, as the separatists would attempt to force their demands be met, despite the fact that the vast majority of citizens within the region did not share the in the desire to secede and create "Libertas."

Even without the insight of the seeresses, it was becoming increasingly apparent that innocent lives might soon be at stake, and the situation was beginning to cause serious political unrest. Unless something was done soon, a civil war would be inevitable.

Due to the severity of the situation, M had sent Bond, 006, 009, and a handful of other royal agents, all under separate guises, to get to the bottom of the strange rumors, collect information, and, if possible, settle the situation entirely. In addition to the 00 agents' license to kill, M had even granted several high ranking agents permission to use deadly force if it proved necessary to put an end to what might otherwise lead to a violent insurrection.

Bond's, 006's, and 009's instructions also included taking out the leader of the "Libertas" movement: a man by the name of Melchom. In addition, they had been instructed to arrest any influential individuals amongst the radicals who could potentially take up the mantle of leader of the separatists after Melchom fell.

Although Melchom was certainly a key point in the "Libertas" plot, the Clayr had warned them that some other nefarious machinations were afoot, though they had not yet been able to piece together enough to know what exactly those nefarious machinations actually entailed. In the meantime, MI had stepped in to both gather more information and to stop any unnecessary bloodshed. There was no telling when, or if, the Clayr would See more on the matter, but as soon as the information came to them—if it did at all—the Clayr would send all the relevant details via message hawks to each of the 00 agents in the field, the Queen, M, and, if necessary, the Abhorsen, as well.

Before Bond had left to be outfitted by Q branch for his mission, Moneypenny had, off the record, hinted to Bond that the Clayr suspected the "Libertas" situation could possibly have some connection with the recent increase in activities of necromancers and the Dead.

Even with that tip, thus far, Bond's efforts at garnering any incontrovertibly reliable information had been utterly fruitless. Bond overheard some tales of the forest-tending Borderers having had some recent encounters with the Dead, but, despite several compelling details, there was no solid evidence to back the stories. This put the tales in the realm of rumor and hearsay. Such stories could easily be nothing more than fictitious tales told to frighten recalcitrant children into obedience.

Despite the questionable credibility of the information, at the mercenaries' last rest stop, in a comfortable and quaint town by the name of Estwael, Bond had taken the time set aside for the mercenaries to rest, relax, and restock, to instead send a message hawk back to M. The message included all the details of what he had overheard, its dubious sources, and his progress otherwise. Unfortunately, other than the meager amount of information he had been able to scrape up in those rumors, he had discovered no intelligence of which MI was not already aware.

Because every cloud has its silver lining, in the process of sending the disappointing news to M and a copy to the Clayr's Glacier for good measure, Bond became very well-acquainted with Estwael's falconer's comely apprentice, who had been tending the birds when Bond arrived in need of a message hawk. While most of the mercenary troupe only got to sleep in the small—albeit comfortably furnished—beds at the inn by providing payment in the form of chores such as chopping firewood or clearing gutters, Bond spent the night in a spacious bed, with cotton sheets, plush pillows, soft blankets, and a goose down duvet, beside the lovely falconer's apprentice, and woke to a home-cooked meal in a stove-warmed room.

After leaving Estwael, life as a member of a mercenary band immediately returned to the way it had been before the short respite. The following night, as Bond prepared the most comfortable spot he could find on the ground, he found himself lamenting his decision to decline the falconer's apprentice's offer to stay in that comparatively luxurious bed for just one more night. If he had stayed in Estwael, he could have followed up on the sources of the rumors, but, Bond rationalized, as he spread fallen leaves into a scrape in the ground to create a makeshift mattress, orders were orders. He must have been placed with the mercenary band for good reason, so with them he would remain, no matter how much he longed for that goose down duvet rather than the scratchy, wool blanket he pulled over himself.

After Bond became a Royal Guard, he had quickly lost his taste for sleeping outdoors, though would do so if necessary for the sake of a mission. However, as he burrowed into his thick blanket, it was evident he had grown accustomed to missions that would allow him to sleep in a decently comfortable bed, even when undercover, due to his capacity to blend seamlessly in with the wealthy and politically powerful.

The old, healed wounds he had earned over the course of a long and dangerous career as a 00 agent ached that much more when he woke on the hard earth the next cold, Northern morning, instead of nestled within the soft blankets of a warm bed. It was nothing he could not handle, but he still would have preferred a mattress to the thin bed of leaves, or, at the very least, for the beginning of the Spring thaw to make the morning a bit less frigid. His breath came in small clouds of condensation as he dutifully rolled up his blanket and secured it to his pack.

When an icy mist began to gather in the late afternoon, creating the illusion of an early sunset as well as threatening either hail or rainfall, Bond finally allowed himself the petty feeling of jealousy towards 006's undercover position as one of a wealthy Lady's guards. Bond was certain Trevelyan got to sleep in a bed, indoors, every night.

As twilight approached and the mercenary troupe began to set up camp in the woods just beyond the northeastern edge of a large, barren meadow that had not yet recovered from the winter's chill, Bond began to entertain the notion of offering to take over whomever's shift it was that night for guard duty. Not sleeping at all might be preferable to being suddenly awoken in the middle of the night soaked by rain or pummeled by hail.

He should have known better than to tempt fate with such a blatant disregard for the sanctity of sleep.

\---

Rest of any sort was quickly removed as a possibility for the mercenaries when the troupe paused in divesting themselves of traveling packs and other gear as the unmistakable sound of dry grass crunching beneath boots came from the meadow. A sizable group of "Libertas" separatists were traveling across the open field in the misty evening.

The separatists had been on their way to Estwael and the surrounding villages, all of which had openly and vehemently rejected the ideals and goals of the "Libertas" movement. The radicals' intent had been to attack the town and villages and either force them to submit, or remove them as an obstacle in achieving secession from the Kingdom.

Despite being outnumbered, the mercenary troupe had been forced into a skirmish with the separatists to prevent the radicals from reaching their destination.

In an abominable insult to nature's will, the serene meadow, quietly awaiting the warmth of Spring to bring it flourishing new life, instead became the raucous site of violence and death. The sound of shouts and metal clanging against metal rent the air, drowning out the soft nocturnal sounds of the woods surrounding the battlefield.

Because of his guise as a simple mercenary, Bond had been granted only one bespelled tool from Q branch: a long dagger, currently sheathed and hidden in his knee-high, leather boot. A dagger, even an enchanted one, was, unfortunately, not a suitable weapon for battle in an open field. In addition, revealing he was in possession of a Charter-spelled weapon would unquestionably risk blowing his cover.

Bond had to rely on the ordinary, unenchanted falchion at his side. To keep his disguise credible, at the onset of the battle, he could not risk casting so much as a spell of luck on his falchion to aid him. Once again, he was thankful to have been adopted and raised by royal guards that, though unable to mentor him in Charter Magic, had more than made up for it by making him a master of swordplay and other forms of combat.

The fog thickened as night took hold of the land, but, despite the shield of mist that could conceivably cloak a short, simple Charter spell, Bond continued to refrain from using any Charter Magic in the interest of keeping his true identity concealed. However, after a comrade less than an arm's length from him was mortally struck by a crossbow bolt to the neck, Bond finally deemed the fog sufficiently impenetrable to discreetly cast a single Charter spell.

With the current weather conditions and their effect on the battle at the forefront of his mind, the use of a crossbow had startled him. No ranged weapon could be properly aimed within the soupy fog that engulfed them.

To protect himself from any stray crossbow bolts, he chose to cast an arrow ward. The mist had grown so thick and turbid that the momentary glow of Charter Magic was instantly swallowed. Bond's ward proved its worth several times throughout the remainder of the conflict, despite the drain on his energy required to maintain it, as the separatists grew increasingly reckless in their desperate attempts to slaughter their opponents by any means necessary.

The battle came to an end as the first rays of dawn began to light the sky. Bond allowed his arrow ward to dissipate as sunlight burned away the icy mist that never had quite evolved into hail or rain, and lit the bloodied battlefield. The mercenaries had been victorious, though not without casualties.

In addition to the injuries and wounds expected from a violent battle fought within the unforgiving obscurity of the previous night's thick fog, many of the mercenaries and separatist soldiers alike had taken hits from crossbow bolts. With the fog destroying any hope of reliable accuracy, not a single member of the mercenary band had drawn a ranged weapon. Every arbalest belonging to a member of the mercenary band was strapped firmly in place, longbows had been left along with traveling packs in their half-erected campsite, and not a single quarrel or arrow had been removed from any of their quivers. This meant every bolt fired during the skirmish had been launched from the crossbows of the separatist soldiers. While the affirmation of the mercenary band's good sense to keep ranged weapons out of a battle where vision had been so heavily compromised was a comfort to Bond, the fact that crossbows had been used at all in such conditions—even by violent radicals—made Bond uneasy. These effectively blind shots had clearly caused as much damage to the separatists' own comrades as they had to their adversaries.

Especially odd when considering the poor tactical judgment in choosing to use ranged weapons when one could not see past the length of one's own arm, was the undeniable fact that the separatist soldiers had not lacked competence in other aspects of combat. Although not as skilled as the mercenaries, it had been obvious the separatist soldiers had received some form of training; they had known how to handle their weapons well. This made the use of crossbows in a situation when ranged weaponry could potentially wound an ally as easily as enemy even more strange. Any unit of soldiers trained for battle would never take such a risk. Bond made a mental note to inform M of the odd incongruity between the relative proficiency in combat the separatist soldiers displayed with their blatant disregard for tactics that would be obvious to even the most novice soldier.

The mercenary band then surprised Bond as they began to reverently collect their fallen comrades and set to making a funeral pyre for their dead. Though traditional amongst members of the Royal Guard, Bond had not expected such veneration from this rough band of hired warriors.

They selected the highest point in the meadow for the funeral pyre, which was appropriately located near the center of the meadow. Each body was divested of armor and weapons and, by midday, there was nothing left of the mercenaries slain in the night's previous battle save for ashes.

The bodies of their enemies had been treated more as Bond had expected. The separatists' bodies were looted, and, unsurprisingly, not granted space in the funerary blaze. Instead, they were unceremoniously left where they had fallen on the bloodstained battlefield. Any discovered to have somehow managed to cling to life were quickly dispatched and abandoned with the rest of the separatists' corpses.

Because the battle had taken place primarily in the Northern half of the meadow, the Southern half had been left blessedly bloodless, and evidence of savage battle was mostly obscured by the slope of the rise upon which mercenaries had chosen to place their funeral pyre. Since the mercenary band was more than a day's march from the nearest settlement, they decided to set up camp in the woods near the southwestern edge of the meadow. There they would spend the remainder of the day and that night, in order to regain the stamina they had lost to the previous night's battle, the sleep it had robbed them of, and the day's labor of collecting and tending to their wounded and their dead. The following morning, they would begin retracing their path back to Estwael, where their surviving wounded could receive proper treatment.

Bond was again surprised by the mercenaries, this time by the concern and care they had for their wounded. He helped several mercenaries erect a tent to shield the injured men from the chill wind sweeping down from the nearby mountains while others helped bind wounds with makeshift bandages, even for those Bond knew from experience would not survive the night.


	5. Unexpected Visitors

The surprises of the day were evidently not yet over for Bond, as late in the afternoon, a Charter Mage appeared from the forest to the Southeast, claiming to have been sent from Estwael to tend to the wounded, once word of a battle in progress had reached them.

The mage had not been in the town when they had passed through it two days prior, and did not appear to be a native of the region. Although his dark, chocolate brown hair and the base coloration of his skin were reminiscent of someone hailing from the Southern coastal region of the Kingdom, his foxlike features and high cheekbones were distinctly sharper than any native of the Southern coast Bond had ever met. He also appeared ill-equipped to be this far North in the Kingdom. Whether this granted more credibility to his story or not, Bond had yet to decide.

It was possible the mage had been traveling and, upon hearing about the battle, had offered his services. As far as the inhabitants of Estwael knew, not a single member of the mercenary band had any skill with Charter Magic whatsoever. Most of them did not even bear a baptismal Charter mark. Charter knew it would not take a great stretch of imagination to figure the mercenary troupe could use the aid of a Charter Mage with an aptitude for healing.

Although the mage's robe was made of sensibly thick wool, it was clearly too large for the man wearing it, and looked relatively new, despite the travel stains it already bore and the mud gathered at its hem, giving Bond the distinct impression it had been recently and hastily acquired. It was cinched tightly at his slim waist by a wide belt of fabric and leather, making it evident the mage was as both as slim as his sharp cheekbones and spindly hands suggested, and that he was not bundled in the many warm layers in which someone aquatinted with weather this far North would most certainly be.

He was shorter than Bond by more than a head, but his long limbs allowed his hands to easily reach out of the robe's sleeves, despite the garment being too large. Along with his lean frame, his long limbs gave him a false illusion of height, especially when surrounded by burly, muscular mercenaries, but, as he drew nearer, it quickly became apparent he was not as tall as he had appeared at a distance.

In the dappled forest light, it had been difficult to see at first, but as he emerged into the open light of the meadow, it also became evident the young man appeared more than a little sickly. His skin looked as if should have been a gentle tan shade, but, instead, he was gaunt, ashen, and unnaturally pale. In addition to that, upon further inspection, the mage appeared to be dangerously riding the line between skinny and emaciated. Overall, it gave him the appearance of someone in the earliest stages of recovering from some serious illness that had necessitated months cooped up indoors with exposure to daylight only via mostly shuttered windows.

The mage tripped over a gopher hold as he approached them, nearly losing his balance enough to topple into the meadow's brittle, yellow grass, but managed to right himself, and then lifted a hand in a hailing gesture. He shouted across the expanse of the field that he was a Charter Mage and had come to help heal the injured, doubtless stating his intentions from afar as a precaution, to prevent any of the mercenary troupe's arbalestiers from deciding he was a danger to them, although Bond doubted any of the mercenaries would have the presence of mind to consider this unassuming young man could be in any way dangerous. One quick look around at the stunned troupe affirmed Bond's suspicious. Not a single one had a hand anywhere near one of their many weapons.

The self-proclaimed Charter Mage was not an imposing sight by any stretch of the imagination, but Bond knew a mage's power lay not in physical strength, but magical prowess, and kept on guard. He could not fight the feeling that there was more to this skinny, young man than met the eye.

Lacking Bond's suspicion, the mercenaries welcomed the Charter Mage and guided him towards their injured fellows. As the mage was lead to the tent housing the wounded, he donned a pair of black gloves made of thin, dyed doeskin. The selection of such a fine, flexible material had doubtlessly been intentional, as the gloves would still allow for the dexterous movements often necessary when casting Charter spells that involved complex healing. More interesting to Bond, however, was the fact that the gloves had not only been enchanted with spells for durability and warmth, but also had been infused with spells beyond Bond's knowledge of Charter Magic.

Bond's suspicions seemed unfounded, as the Charter Mage truly did seem to only have his clearly stated intentions in mind. The moment they reached the medical tent, the Charter Mage swiftly knelt beside a wounded mercenary and quickly went to work.

Bond unobtrusively stood nearby to watch, unable to ignore the caution his long career as a royal agent had instilled within him. The Charter Mage paid Bond no heed, his focus entirely on casting Charter spells of healing.

Although Bond specialized in a certain variety of Charter Magic, in the process of learning the spells he could cast, he had come to know many Charter marks commonly used by Charter Mages for a wide variety of functions, and could identify them with ease, despite the fact that he did not utilize them himself.

However, this newcomer was no common Charter Mage.

It was immediately apparent to Bond that this man was unquestionably an extraordinarily gifted Charter Mage. Bond could sense the enormity of power in the complex spells the mage was weaving. Small constellations of marks gathered in the mage's leather-clad hands. The royal agent recognized several Charter marks he knew few Charter Mages possessed the skill to wield. Yet, this mage was effortlessly interlacing these mighty marks into his intricate spells without the least bit of hesitation and absolutely no signs of difficulty or strain in maintaining complete, masterful control.

Was it really just a lucky coincidence that a Charter Mage with such expert capabilities had come to them?

How had he managed to make the trip from Estwael it had taken them two days to make in less than one?

Could the Clayr have Seen the battle and sent them aid? If so, where was the message hawk explaining this strange mage's sudden appearance?

Was it his imagination, or was it getting colder faster than usual this evening?

As he mused, the golden glow of the Charter spells bringing his fellows miraculously back from the brink of death began to coalesce with the glow of the sunset, and Bond finally decided it was safe enough to leave the mage to his work in order to help the others start a fire to stave off some of the night's oncoming chill.

Some of the mercenaries now gathering wood for a fire were the Charter Mage's former patients. A fire was the least they could provide for their underdressed guest.

Bond glanced back and could detect a slight shaking of the skinny Charter Mage's frame beneath the oversized robe. Whether it was from the fatigue of casting so many powerful spells in such rapid succession, or the intensifying cold, he could not say, but, either way, he turned from the Charter Mage and began to help piling wood together for a fire.

Bond was certain he could have saved nearly as many during the battle as the Charter Mage was now, had he been granted a properly enchanted sword and been allowed to cast arrow wards for his comrades once their adversaries had begun their deranged crossbow maneuvers but, in his disguise, that had been out of the question. It had been explicitly stated to him by M himself that he could not reveal his true identity under any circumstances.

He smiled wryly as his thoughts traveled back to his mission debriefing. His relative lack of equipment was likely something for which both Q and R had been pleased, as Bond had a notorious reputation for damaging or losing tools on his missions. Really, though, could he be blamed if his sword melted when striking at a creature literally made of fire? Or losing a spelled knife when a necromancer fled into Death with the knife still embedded within her? It was never his _intention_ to lose or damage equipment.

At the thought of Boothroyd, his heart gave a nostalgic pang. After his customary outfitting of equipment, Boothroyd informed Bond that his retirement was finally, officially underway, and by the time 007 returned, his successor would be in his place, to scold him, Boothroyd had playfully added. It was not as if he would never see the former Quartermaster again, but it would never again be quite the same experience walking into Q's workshop or office before a mission.

Burying the momentary emotion, he thought of the other equipment he currently had at his disposal. In spite of his wish for an ensorcelled sword, he had to admit that he had been well-outfitted for the mission. In addition to the bespelled dagger, he had been given an unremarkable, but very well forged, sword: the unusually thin-bladed falchion to which he now owed his life several times over. He also wore several layers of warm shirts underneath a mail hauberk—since a hauberk of gethre plates would have been too out of place in a band of simple mercenaries—wool socks, and two layers of trousers which were tucked into his sturdy, waterproof boots. Over the mail, he wore a simple jupon that matched those the other members of the mercenary band wore, a pair of gauntlets, and, although he had divested it to allow for greater movement during the battle, he now also bore a long, fur-lined overcoat whose length ended just past his knees, to ensure he would be kept warm in the chilly northern air. Despite his initial protests, he had also acquired a clearly lovingly-tended backsword from one of his fallen comrades, which he buckled alongside the falchion. Finally, folded neatly in one of the large inner pockets of his overcoat was a blanket-sized oilskin square that could serve as a small tent to keep him dry in the event of rain, or, more likely, judging by the chill still clinging to the evening air despite the calendar proclaiming it Spring, in the event of snow.

It was fortuitous that, in spite of the nights' frigid cold, the Spring melt had begun on schedule. Sheets of ice that had covered the rivers during Winter had been violently shattered by the torrential cascade of melted snow that came flooding from the nearby mountains. Streams became rivers and rivers overflowed with rushing water.

If there were indeed Dead about, this would extremely hamper their mobility. The Dead could not pass running water, and with the Spring melt, there was plenty of that now.

\---

When the last rays of the sun vanished beneath the horizon, the mercenaries had a campfire crackling merrily in the center of several fallen logs they had dragged over to serve as makeshift benches.

Bond was considering shedding his overcoat again, as the campfire was now large enough to provide more than an adequate amount of warmth, but the thought sent a pang of guilt through him at the sudden vivid memory of the underdressed Charter Mage still hard at work.

The most grievously injured had been tended to first, and several that had been resigned to death just that morning were cheerfully conversing from their seats on a log beside the fire, looking hardly worse for wear. The mage's work had been nothing short of a miracle.

Bond stood, informing the troupe he was going to check on the Charter Mage and the remainder of the wounded. He was tossed a wine skin, told to offer it to their guest, and to invite him to the fire. The remainder of the wounded were not in mortal peril, and could be brought to the fire as well, while granting the mage a well-deserved break.

The sedulous Charter Mage was bent over one of the wounded, when Bond approached. The mercenary's shoulder sported a deep gouge from which blood sluggishly oozed. Golden marks glimmered in the mage's hands before he quietly uttered a master mark to complete the spell and released it onto the mercenary's injury. The shimmering marks poured into the wound like some radiantly gleaming liquid, and Bond watched with fascination as the wound knitted itself shut, not even leaving so much as a scar behind.

"There now," the mage said in a businesslike manner, "all done. Next time, watch for crossbows. Half of you in here were caught by ranged weapons," he chided. "You're lucky that only went through your arm. You could have been hit in the chest."

The mercenary grumbled something about a lucky shot in the fog, but was silenced by the mage's withering look.

To Bond's amusement, it seemed the entire population of enormous, brawny mercenaries in the tent appeared cowed by the dignified, but outwardly unimposing, mage.

Before the next in line for healing began to unwrap his injury for the Charter Mage to examine, the slender spell caster spoke. "You and your companions must be careful," this time the Charter Mage's tone was much more serious: a portentous warning rather than one of well-intentioned castigation. It stilled and silenced the formerly rowdy inhabitants of the tent immediately. "These woods are not safe, not even for skilled warriors such as yourselves," his eyes briefly, almost imperceptibly, darted around to peer past the trees and into the dark forest, "especially at night. You may no longer feel it is a necessity to do so, but I advise you go back to Estwael, and stay there. If you insist on continuing these sojourns into the forest, as I have been lead to believe is a necessary factor in your employment, then, at the very least, find a Charter Stone around which to make camp each night, build a fire, and do not let it go out until the sun rises."

The mercenaries remained still even after the Charter Mage finished speaking, sensing the gravity of his words. Bond knew they took the Charter Mage's counsel to heart, and would heed the man's warning.

Bond cleared his throat to announce his presence, and break the silence. "Anyone here about to die," he asked, "or lose a limb?"

"No," and variations thereof were quickly volunteered from the entire population of mercenaries in the tent.

"Good. Leader says we can all relax by the fire for a bit while dinner cooks, then," Bond said.

The tent rapidly emptied of mercenaries with the promise of food, emancipation from the evidently imperious reign of the masterful spell caster, and potential release from the disturbing thoughts brought upon by the mage's ominous exhortation. As a precaution, Bond made sure to examine each man as they exited the tent to make certain none had been lying, and was pleasantly not disappointed.

"I wasn't finished," the mage stated, the slightest touch of petulance in his otherwise impassive tone. He rose, and looked at Bond with an expression of schooled reticence.

"I think you scare them," Bond said, offering the wine skin to the mage. "You do hold their lives in your hands."

The mage paused then, his previously imperturbable gaze giving way to a strange, curious look before he responded. "More than you know," the words sounded tired, and somehow resigned, exhaustion clearly evident in the abstruse statement.

"They're grateful," Bond amended, wondering if he had somehow offended the Charter Mage to whom several of his comrades owed their lives.

The mage quickly regained his air of controlled equanimity, although some of the tiredness still bled into his words, "The rest don't really need healing, as such. As long as they keep their wounds clean, they should be fine."

"That's a relief," Bond said, half for the sake of his companions, temporary though they might be, and half for the sake of the clearly spent Charter Mage. The mage had obviously been willing to heal the remainder of the mercenaries, but sparing him the unnecessary effort seemed the most equitable thing to do.

The Charter Mage politely refused Bond's offer wine, but gratefully accepted some water from Bond's water skin.

Bond was about to suggest they join the rest of the mercenary band by the warmth of the fire when an unearthly screech rent the cold, night air.

"No..." the mage whispered, and paled, a feat Bond previously would have thought impossible, given the man's already significantly pallid countenance. For a moment, Bond was certain the Charter Mage was on the verge of fainting, and readied himself to catch the slight man before he could hit the ground.

Instead of passing out, the mage surprised Bond by twirling around to face the direction from whence the ghastly sound had come. The muddied hem of his robe swirled around his soft boots as he moved, and an ensorcelled knife Bond could only assume had been hidden in his sleeve suddenly appeared in his hand.

"What was..." Bond trailed off as his attention was drawn away from the eerie sound and his unnecessary preparation to catch an armful of skinny, underdressed mage to the mage's knife. The Charter spells imbued in the knife's blade were identical to the ones placed on the dagger hidden in his boot. Before he had a chance to properly consider and dissect this curious fact, the tent was abruptly torn down around them.

Bond turned rapidly, and found himself starring straight into the hollow, rheumy eyes of a creature that had once been a living man, but now bore only the gruesomely crooked semblance of one. It was, unquestionably, dead. The initially fatal blow to the animated corpse had likely been the asymmetric vertical strike to its head which had cleaved the lower portion of its face cleanly in two, leaving nothing between the two halves but air and semi-dried blood—blood that had not stopped flowing from the disfiguring wound because it had clotted, but because the creature's heart had stopped pumping.

In an instant, Bond had unsheathed the backsword and cleanly skewered the creature without the need for a single conscious thought. The flawlessly executed the stop-trust had been pure muscle memory elicited by the unshakable nerves and unique instinct garnered from years of working a career that routinely involved putting the agent in positions of mortal peril.

Unfortunately for Bond, the dead creature seemed unaffected by the sudden intrusion of metal speared through its chest. A wound that would have been unquestionably fatal to any living man only served to slow the dead creature's implacable approach towards the life it craved in order to solidify its own unnatural reemergence into the world of the living. It impaled itself further onto the long backsword to forward its progress toward the agent, and greedily reached for Bond's neck with hands distorted by the presence of seven, impossibly long fingers that each possessed too many joints.

"They're already dead!" the mage shouted, taking a step away from the tent towards the campfire, clearly instructing more than only Bond with his vocal warning. "You can't stop them with an ordinary weapon! Run!" The final word was infused with Charter Magic, and Bond felt an instant compulsion to do as the mage directed: to run, to run away, to run from the monster before him, to run into to woods, to run and not stop until he found safe haven.

However, unlike the Charter Mage's previous spells, this one had not been nearly as powerfully cast. The Charter spell added to the final word had been done so in a hurried rush. It was evident to Bond that the addition of a compulsion had occurred to the mage after he had begun speaking.

Although the spell still carried sufficient potency to compel an ordinary individual, Bond had been trained to resist such spells. Even so, Bond dropped the hilt of his sword and found himself taking a few halting steps away from his Dead adversary and towards the forest.

As his entire mind focused on fighting the compulsion, Bond momentarily forgot the necessity of concealing his ability to cast Charter spells in order to stay undercover, and whispered a counter-spell. The next instant, he had broken free of the compulsion, and immediately reached out to take hold of his sword once again.

Not one to abandon an ally, even one that had attempted to compel him to do so, Bond pulled his sword free. Clots of coagulated blood and small pieces of greyish flesh tore from the wound as he yanked his sword from the creature's chest, and fell onto the yellow grass or clung to the blade in grotesque, congealed masses. Bond abstractly noted the majority of the bits that remained loosely adhered to the blade bore the spongy appearance of lung tissue, but the grizzly remnants were dislodged as he cleanly hacked off the creature's arms, and then its legs. It made a garbled sound of frustration, but despite being thoroughly crippled, it obdurately continued to try to writhe onwards.

Bond stepped back, and the wretched thing futilely snapped at Bond's feet with its mismatched jaws. The way the two asymmetric halves disparately bit at the air in its unflagging, single-minded effort gave the creature the ghastly appearance of having two distinctly separate mouths. 

Ordinarily, after undergoing such extensive damage, a Dead spirit would be forced to abandon the body, and be swept up by the current of Death in the process, but whatever necromancer had placed this spirit into the vacated corpse had done so with considerable force, adhering the spirit to the ghastly, maimed body, where it would remain, until fire or decomposition rendered the body completely uninhabitable, or spell or immersion in deep or running water forced it out of the mutilated flesh.

It was only then that Bond realized the now-limbless creature bore the same garb as the separatist soldiers the mercenaries had slain the previous night.

The reason the Charter Mage had instructed Bond and all the mercenaries within earshot to retreat quickly became evident as Bond turned his attention briefly away from his crippled adversary. A horde of the Dead had emerged from the forest and were rapidly surrounding the campfire. The jovial songs, gleeful declarations of victory, and merry supper time chatter were no more. All sounds and signs of levity had been replaced by the general din of shouts and disarray of unexpected combat against and flight from an opponent for which the mercenary band was neither prepared nor trained, such as the unique, chilling noise of metal weaponry meeting bone. The campfire, and the mercenaries that had been seated around it, were rapidly being obstructed from view by a mob of animated corpses.

Bond chanced a glanced over his shoulder at the mage, who was standing in a surprisingly competent defensive battle stance, knife in one hand, while the other was curled in a ready, spell casting gesture. A lifeless corpse lay at his feet.

Hopefully, the mage had been sufficiently distracted with his own enemy to not have noticed Bond's counter-spell, and would instead blame Bond's disobedience on his own rushed casting.

The abomination Bond had relieved of its arms and legs still emitted wheezy, croaking cries as it tried to make its way towards them, even with only stumps left for limbs, so desperate was it to devour and absorb the life within them. Its wretched, dolorous noises had drawn the attention of several other monstrous creatures, though, Bond reasoned, as he severed the head from the limbless monstrosity to silence it, it had only been a matter of time before he and the mage had been noticed.

At least half a dozen of the horde of the Dead previously focused on attacking the the mercenaries around the campfire were now shambling towards the medical tent. Each of the grotesque creatures were in varying states of decomposition. Some, like the one Bond had disarmed, crippled, and beheaded, were fresh, clearly harvested from the corpses left upon the battlefield. Others were much older, and more skeleton than flesh, hobbling along as the rotting remnants of tendons and muscles moved their eerily clicking bones.

Bond's free hand itched to remove the bespelled dagger from its sheath. Like the mage's enchanted knife, Bond's dagger could tear through not only the flesh of a dead creature, but the warped spirit that inhabited the body as well. A fatal blow would drive the malevolent or enslaved spirit back into Death where it belonged. However, Bond knew that even if he drew his ensorcelled blade, the the odds would still not be tilted anywhere near enough to even remotely entertain the possibility of victory.

Keeping an arrow ward functioning for at least a good few hours had drained Bond; he could not imagine the enervation the Charter Mage was experiencing, despite the obvious fact that the mage was both highly trained and powerful. Even if the mage did possess some unexpected skill in combat, he had already been showing visible signs of exhaustion prior to the attack, and Bond, running on one sleepless night already, had to admit he was not in prime condition for battle, either. Armed with the mage's enchanted knife and his dagger alone, there was absolutely no chance they could defeat all of their adversaries. They were simply too outnumbered.

Bond gritted his teeth as he made his decision. As much as he hated the thought of abandoning any of the mercenaries that might not manage to extricate themselves from the horde of the Dead, MI had to be informed of what he had witnessed. The sheer number of the Dead and their coordinated attack on the mercenary band was not the result of a few random spirits wriggling free of Death. This was, unequivocally, the work of a necromancer, and Bond had to survive long enough to notify MI. Unfortunately, flight was the only option for possible survival for the fatigued Charter Mage and himself.

As if to prove Bond's assessment, the Charter Mage cursed, and then muttered, "I don't have enough power to handle this many Dead. Not after–" his words were cut short by a snarl as one of the Dead suddenly burst forth from the shadowed woods nearest the mage.

Once again acting on instinct, Bond rushed forward and sliced across the creature's body, and, once again, this did little but dirty Bond's blade.

Fortunately, mage's Charter-spelled knife blossomed in the creature's eye socket a moment later, and it howled in agony and rage as the spirit animating the corpse was banished to Death due to a combination of the damage dealt to the inhabited physical body and the spell within the blade directly exerting its purifying effect on the warped spirit itself.

Bond was about to express his gratitude to the Charter Mage, but did not have time to do more than pull the mage's knife from the monster's head before the first wave of Dead Hands heading for them from the campfire fell upon them.

This group of Dead Hands was entirely composed of corpses that had been left abandoned on the battlefield. They had greedily pushed their way past their more decomposed cohorts to reach the potential prey and irresistible life within them first. Though arguably less grotesque than their more putrescent brethren, the Hands made from the corpses harvested from the battlefield were more dangerous, as they could move more swiftly, and carried more force than Dead Hands that were skeletons with only a veneer of useless, fetid, rotting flesh upon their bones.

Bond used a combination of his backsword and the mage's Charter-spelled knife to keep his opponents at bay. The sword kept his opponents at a distance whilst he darted forward with strikes from the ensorcelled knife to damage both the flesh and spirit stuff within the Dead Hands.

In his peripheral vision, he caught glimpses of the flashing golden brilliance of Charter Magic as the mage too engaged their opponents.

Bond barely had time to feel guilt for robbing the Charter Mage of his knife—he was unable to spare even a moment to return it during the constant onslaught—before he saw the bright crimson-gold illumination of a conjured fire and felt its heat rapidly intensifying at an alarming rate. He turned to see an unnaturally thin line of fire spearing at least nine feet into the air rushing towards him.

The moment of distraction cost him dearly. A distorted, bestial appendage that had once been a hand gripped his knife arm, leaving him within the grasp of a Dead Hand he had slowed with a single, puissant sweep of his sword that had cut through its legs. Had it not been for the gauntlets he wore, his arm would have been punctured by the sharp, claw-like fingers that held his wrist with bruising, unnatural strength. Pain then erupted from his right leg, as the creature bit into his thigh with inhumanly long teeth.

Then, the fire came, roaring into the Dead attacking Bond before another could lay an assault upon him. It sliced through the one that had sunk its teeth into his leg. The vile, repugnant thing released him reactively as it shrieked in agony, the conjured fire driving it swiftly to Death.

Bond staggered back, watching as the flames engulfed the Hands, and they wailed in pain, frustration, and fury as the bodies they inhabited were rendered too damaged to continue holding the spirits within, and they were forced back into the cold, waiting waters of Death.

The fire was no longer a thin line. It spread as if oil had spilled on the ground all around it, forcing Bond to scramble back further. His leg nearly gave beneath him, and he wobbled precariously. The immediate threat had been thwarted by the conjured fire, and he needed a free hand, so he sheathed his sword and gripped the trunk of a yew tree to steady himself. With his assailants successfully subdued, the pain in his leg was rapidly beginning to amplify.

A large chunk had been bitten out of his thigh. He could feel blood pouring from the hideous bite wound. Bond cut a strip of fabric from his jupon with the knife, and tied a tourniquet above the wound to stem the bleeding as much as possible, justifying his decision with the knowledge that if he did survive, the leg would likely be lost to infection, anyhow. Without treatment, infection almost invariably followed a bite from the feculent mouth of a Dead Hand.

The mage was in front of him moments later. Bond noted he was not entirely unscathed either, although it was difficult assess him properly. The fire lit the mage from behind, making him a slender shape in the smoke that cast an unnatural shroud over them both, but a few things were noticeable despite the smoke and fire. His wool robe was damaged and scorched, the thick belt he had been using to cinch the robe in place had been torn away completely, and he was favoring his right side as he moved.

"Your knife," Bond offered the mage back his enchanted knife.

"Thank you," the mage said perfunctorily as he took the knife. Instead of whisking it back into his sleeve, which had been torn and singed, the mage instead slipped it into his robes, ostensibly having moved the sheath when his robes were damaged, probably onto another belt.

Bond felt a moment of satisfaction at having correctly guessed the robe was an outer layer over what the mage ordinarily wore, which, whatever it was, would be far too light for the oncoming cold of night, no matter how hot the blaze of the steadily approaching fire was making it seem now.

"We have to get out of here," the mage said, his voice steady, but carrying an undercurrent of urgency. "The fire will hold them off, and might even be able to take out a few more, but not all of them, and there are more on their way."

"I'm having a little trouble walking," Bond downplayed his badly bitten thigh. He knew he could not do much more than hobble, much less run.

The mage followed his gaze and then said, "Let's get some distance between us and immolation or the Dead and then I can deal with that." He looped Bond's arm over his shoulders and Bond did his best to move as quickly as he could while putting minimal weight on his damaged leg.


	6. No Ordinary Mage

Bond's leg finally gave out when they reached a distance at which the smoke and glow from the fire was beginning to become obscured from view by the dense tree line of the forest.

The desiccated, decayed cries and howls of the Dead were, however, growing no quieter, as they fanned away from the fire. It sounded to Bond like some perverted parody of howling hounds after rabbits, as the Dead Hands pursued various quarry into the woods.

Despite the bone-chilling quality of the eerie cries, it was encouraging, to an extent, to note that the Dead were not concentrating on following a single target. It meant Bond and the Charter Mage were not the only ones to have escaped with their lives. The more that had escaped, the more the necromancer's forces would be split up looking for survivors, increasing every individual's chances for survival. The likelihood the escaped mercenaries would survive the night was still slim at best, but knowing some had escaped was still a heartening thought.

Even so, it sounded like there was a particular group of Dead Hands approaching them at a pace that brooked no question as to what they were after: the the scent of Bond's fresh blood, and the life it promised.

"They're coming. You have to run!" Bond commanded, and pushed at the thin arm the other man held above his wounded leg, to no avail.

One of the mage's hands deftly unfastened the tourniquet while the other rapidly filled with golden Charter marks. They looked like a shining liquid that threatened to overflow his carefully cupped fingers.

The mage's eyes flicked up from the gaping wound in Bond's thigh. The gruesome bite had torn its way completely through and removed a sizable portion of his flesh, leaving a grizzly view of the bright, white bone beneath. Dark, hazel eyes met brilliant blue for the briefest of moments. A smile Bond would swear he could accurately describe as impish momentarily graced the mage's lips as he ignored Bond's demands, before they parted and he spoke the master mark to complete the incantation.

Dazzling, golden light poured from his gloved hand, and flowed and into the deep wound.

The mage, previously nothing more than a caliginous silhouette illuminated only from behind by the fire, was briefly lit as the spell was cast. Its luminescence fleetingly dispelled the murky obscurity caused by a combination of the chokingly thick smoke and the moonless night's own pervading darkness. In the moment the spell's golden effulgence lit the world between them, Bond noticed the mage's torn and scorched robe had fallen open as he knelt over the agent's leg.

Hidden underneath the wool was a dusty, dark blue or black surcoat, embroidered in silver with some repeating sigil that was unrecognizable beneath the soot, and, to Bond's utter horror, a leather bandolier, worn diagonally across the mage's chest.

Seven tubular pouches of increasing size hung from the bandolier. The smallest, nearest his shoulder, was barely larger than a cat's dainty paw, and the largest akin in size to the paw of a monstrous bear. Dark, mahogany handles hung out of the pouches. The handles of bells. This identified this diminutive mage as not just an adept in magic, but someone—or something—much more powerful and frightening than the Dead doggedly pursuing the scent of every drop of freshly spilt blood, including his own.

This man was no ordinary mage.

This man was a necromancer, carrying the seven bells with which he could call upon and command the Dead. Had Bond a moment more to react, he would have reached for his bespelled dagger and slain the man, or, at the very least, done his best to accomplish that goal, given his current condition.

Perhaps this mage—this _necromancer_ —was even responsible for the current assault of the extant Dead.

Every necromancer practicing the fell arts of Free Magic meant killing, death, and Dead, akin to the ones chasing him and his comrades now. That, in turn, resulted in yet more killing, more death, and more Dead minions for the necromancers who sought to control them. Every necromancer alive created a never-ending cycle of violence and death.

Now, Bond was not squeamish about death. He was a Royal Agent and proud member of the Royal Guard, and death was, consequently, a large part of his business, but for reasons which he did not allow himself to dwell upon, he harbored a particular hatred for necromancers and their ilk.

Fortunately for the mage, the casting was swift, and Bond was not given those vital few seconds to react before the spell took effect.

Immediately, Bond felt his flesh knitting together. The exposed bone was rapidly covered with muscle and sinew, and then a bright layer of new skin, appearing unnaturally clean around the mud and grime surrounding what had once been a wound that could have easily proven fatal, even without the Dead in pursuit.

Though Bond himself was no great Charter Mage, he was one of the MI's most elite agents, and was therefore very familiar with the differences between Charter and Free Magic. He had received training on the subject of Free Magic from MI in the course of becoming a Royal Agent. It had been practical training on how to recognize a Free Magic spell, creatures born of Free Magic, or sorcerers that utilized Free Magic, and techniques to protect oneself from the corrosive effects of Free Magic. The training every agent received heavily focused upon avoiding and evading confrontation, until someone qualified to handle Free Magic arrived. Upon his promotion to a 00 agent, he also received a more in-depth course in the aspect of actively fighting Free Magic, rather than merely avoiding it. Only 00 agents and Royal Agents that were additionally powerful Charter Mages were granted this specialized, supplementary training. In addition to his MI training, he had encountered his share of situations involving Free Magic during fieldwork.

The spells the mage had cast when healing his comrades and the gilded glow that lingered above what had only moments before been his own gruesome injury had not been the work of Free Magic. The mirroring golden shimmer on the mage's forehead Charter mark also lent credit and evidence to the mage's apparent lack of deviance from casting spells purely derived of Charter Magic. Furthermore, there had been no trace of a metallic scent in the air, no corrosive tang accompanying the spells, and every spell Bond had witnessed the mage cast had been infused with Charter marks, albeit with more than a few he did not recognize.

Bond had heard of powerful sorcerers that could hide their true nature beneath a magical façade, but why would a necromancer heal someone who could so easily be turned into a blindly obedient minion?

Until the Dead had attacked the camp, the mage had been dutifully tending to the wounded. Fatally injured comrades—resigned to death—could have also been recruited to an undead battalion, but had instead been painstakingly healed by the mage's miraculous medical ministrations. The healing spells left them well and whole, and, before the unexpected onslaught, the mage's patients had been seated by the campfire, laughing and merrily exchanging lively tales.

Bond did not need his training at MI to know that the caliber of spell casting this mage had demonstrated took not only a high level of natural aptitude, extraordinary skill, concentration, and years of dedicated training, but would also require an immense exertion of energy.

From a purely pragmatic standpoint, this fact was the singular most important when considering the sorcerer's actions and possible intentions.

It simply would not make sense for a sorcerer to heal the mercenaries back to their full strength—or near enough to it—if the sorcerer ultimately intended to murder them to create Dead minions. Not only would it be a tremendous waste of energy, but would make the final act of slaying all the more difficult. A trained mercenary was no easy opponent to fell.

In the fading golden light of the spell, Bond also noted that the mage did indeed look tired. Dark smudges of exhaustion were evident beneath his eyes, even past the soot, sweat, and dirt upon the exposed skin of his face. Bond conceded that, though he truly did not know what this sorcerer was capable of, at the moment, he certainly _looked_ too spent to be covertly commanding a force of the undead as large as the small legion of adversaries that had ambushed them.

The mage had also seemed as genuinely shocked by the sudden appearance of the Dead as Bond. Bond knew expressions and reactions could be fabricated, but from what little he had gleaned of the mage thus far, despite all his secrets, the man was a poor liar.

All of these thoughts gave him pause, staying his hand from a swift and deadly strike. Instead of reaching for his falchion, backsword, or dagger to run the sorcerer though with a finely tempered and sharpened blade, he took the mage's offered hand to help him back to his feet.

Bond's glimpse of the bell bandolier was fleeting. Not only did the nebulous gloom quickly close about them again, but the sorcerer pulled his robe more tightly about him, as if against the cold, and cinched it at the waist with a length of thick rope he extracted from one of many pockets, effectively hiding the bandolier from view.

The "Libertas" separatists would not employ Free Magic sorcerers... would they? If word got out that necromancy was in any way involved in their battle for secession, what little political support the faction possessed would immediately evaporate, leading to their ultimate, inevitable defeat.

It made more sense the mercenary troupe simply had the bad fortune of setting camp too close to the location of their hard-earned victory, where a necromancer in need of some new—perhaps less decayed—minions to do his or her bidding had been drawn to the seemingly abandoned battlefield in order to reap the spoils of war, either expecting to find nothing but lifeless casualties, or forces so weakened by combat that they would be unable to stand up to his or her own small battalion of the Dead.

If that was indeed the case, the necromancer had been correct, specifically with the latter assumption. Caught off guard, the mercenaries had been surrounded before they had even heard the first unnatural stumble of a reanimated corpse. The Dead seemed no less inclined to rend the self-proclaimed healer's life from his body than any of the mercenaries, as was evidenced by the fact that the two now ran side by side away from the deserted campsite with the Dead now spreading into the forest in pursuit.

That then brooked the question: if this was not the necromancer behind the attack, who was this mysterious inconnu, and why did he have the tools of a necromancer not only in his possession, but fastened about himself in such a way only someone who was ready and prepared to use those tools would?

The mage had arrived earlier that day, claiming to have been sent as a healer. He had immediately gotten to work, without pausing to so much as change out of his travel-stained clothes, though with the bloody battle finally at its end, it was far too late for the great majority of fallen warriors, and now, it seemed, perhaps too late for any at all, save for Bond.

"Give me your sword," the mage said, pulling Bond roughly from his musings.

"What? Why?" Despite his decision to continue accompanying the mage for the time being, he still regarded the man with more than a small amount of suspicion.

"I'm going to place some magic in the blade, to make it more useful against the Dead," the mage explained, and tugged the glove off of his right hand. Bond briefly noted a slim silver ring set with a single gemstone upon the index finger of the spellcaster's hand. "I should have done so from the start, with all your weapons," the mage added in a self-recriminating mutter, clearly more to himself than to Bond, and tucked the glove into a pocket.

Bond pulled the backsword from its sheath, keeping the falchion to himself. He still did not wholly trust the man and wanted to keep at least one sword free of tampering.

The mage took the sword's hilt in his left hand and spread the bare fingertips of his right on the steel blade. As before, when he began to cast, his eyes seemed to wall off everything but the target of his spell, his entire attention directed upon the metal and the Charter from whence he plucked the necessary marks. Bond thought this more than a little dangerous considering the ground they were traversing was not entirely even. Fortunately, no rabbit holes or tree roots strayed into their path as Charter marks slid from the mage's fingers onto the blade like luminescent oil which was absorbed by the steel. The completed spell was not anywhere near as complex as the one gracing his knife or Bond's dagger, but Bond recognized marks for sharpness, unraveling, and others that, together, would allow the sword to cut through the spirit stuff of even the Dead that did not inhabit physical bodies as easily as it sliced into the flesh of those that did.

He handed the sword back to Bond. Bond sheathed his newly bespelled blade, and the mage pulled the doeskin glove onto his hand again. For warmth, Bond thought, and quizzically regarded the gloves. The mage had made a point to remove one before infusing the blade with Charter Magic; however, he had not removed them when casting healing spells or whatever Charter-spell had resulted in the conjured fire. "What are the spells on the gloves for?" the question was off his tongue before Bond could get a reign on his curiosity. Bond personally blamed his loose tongue on blood loss. Although his leg felt good as new, he could tell the blood spilt from the wound had not been entirely replaced by the healing spell.

"Hm?" the mage glanced at Bond and then looked down at the gloves, "Oh. They amplify the effects of healing marks, and they keep my hands warm. They don't interfere with casting other spells, but I prefer to feel things with my own hands when I cast spells like... like those," he gestured to Bond's sword. "It's a... a hobby of mine, to make things, and delicate work is always easier when you can feel things with your own fingers."

Bond nodded, mentally assessing the new information. So, the mage enjoyed making things. Specifically things that involved _"delicate work."_

Before Bond could properly analyze the matter, the mage froze.

Bond stopped too, and the question of why they had halted died on his tongue as the unspoken query was answered by the sound of footsteps, heavily crunching on the leaf litter, still relatively far away but approaching fast. How the mage had noticed the sound was nothing short of amazing. Dead Hands were not known for their subtlety, but the footfalls were yards away, and unless Bond had stopped and kept utterly still he would not have heard the sound above the popping and crackling of the huge fire they had left behind until the Dead had been upon them.

"Dead Hands," the mage said quickly and quietly, as if the Dead had not already noted their location. "Only four of them, but they're directly in front of us and coming straight for us."

Bond drew his sword, unable to help a smile from quirking his lips as his fingers tightened on the hilt of the enchanted weapon. This time, he was ready to face these enemies. The Hands that stood between them and their river destination stood no chance against him, now that he was properly armed.

\---

"I should have known..." the mage said quietly, his defensive stance easing as he sheathed his knife. It had been unnecessary for him to draw the weapon. Bond and his newly enchanted sword dispatched the Hands quickly and efficiently, leaving the mage with no opportunity to utilize the small blade to good effect. Showers of golden light and silver sparks erupted with each successful blow from the bespelled sword until all four Hands were down, the spirits having shucked the bodies like snakes shedding old skins.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, kid," Bond said, sheathing the Charter-spelled sword. "It's just like fighting anyone else now that you spelled my sword. I wouldn't have been able to do a thing without that."

"What?" the mage looked confused for a moment, then shook his head, "No, not that. I know you're more competent in battle than I am." It was, like most things he said, stated as fact, and obviously caused him no pain to admit, but the next sentence seemed to pierce small knives of guilt into him with each word. "I should have been able to prevent this battle from happening at all. I should have made sure all the bodies were burnt. I should have had your troupe on the move immediately. I should have spelled all of your weapons instead of..."

"Instead of saving lives?" Bond asked, skeptically. "Personally, I think you had your priorities straight."

The mage did not seem to have heard him, and muttered again, "I should have known..."

"That we would be attacked by the Dead?" Bond asked, changing tactics and using a tone that clearly stated, _'Don't be ridiculous.'_

Silence met his ears and comprehension dawned upon him like the sun breaking over the horizon, viewed from a high tower of the royal palace in Belisaere on a cloudless day. Rumors of Borderers never returning after setting out on one of many tasks required in maintaining the Great Forest. A powerful Charter Mage from far away suddenly appearing. An unexpected ambush of the Dead.

"You didn't come here for us," Bond said. "You came here for them."

The mage did not refute Bond's statement. He merely glanced at Bond briefly, wearing an expression similar to the one he had worn when Bond had mentioned the mage had the lives of the mercenaries in his hands, before he turned his head to look back into the dark woods behind them, from whence undeniable sounds of pursuit arose. The look held far more meaning now, despite its brevity, and clearly told Bond he had guessed correctly.

Before Bond could fully process this new information or ask the mage something further to garner more information, such as who he really was, or the more important question of who had sent him, the mage spoke, his tone one of castigation, "I saw the funeral pyre. I thought your lot had burned _all_ the bodies..."

"Sorry," Bond said, and he meant it. Had he known what was in store, he would have built another funerary fire for the enemy all on his own, "we didn't."

"I noticed," the mage responded dryly, but his sardonic expression quickly devolved into one of self-recrimination again, "but you weren't the only ones who miscalculated... I thought they wouldn't dare come out, if there was a nice fire, and enough of us—enough of _you_ —a big, strong group of the Guard–"

"Mercenaries," Bond corrected automatically, for the sake of his cover, despite the fact that he would likely not be using it for very much longer.

"Right, _mercenaries_ ," the mage agreed. "The _Guard_ would have known better than to leave corpses on a battlefield. Most of your lot don't have Charter marks, but I would have at least thought the ones that did would have known to take the precaution."

Bond gave the mage a quick smile, "I think you overestimate the Guard. It is customary for funeral pyres to be lit to honor your own dead, not your enemy's." Although this was technically true, Bond knew the traditional practice of lighting funerary pyres for only members of your own fallen comrades was largely a result of the rarity of battles being fought to the last man standing, such as had been the case with the battle between the separatists and mercenaries the previous night. There was no shame in minimizing casualties once a battle's ultimate outcome was evident to those in command. This would leave members of both warring factions to each build funeral pyres for their own dead, leaving the battlefield clear of bodies.

Skirmishes with the "Libertas" separatists did not follow the usual rules and etiquette of battle. There was not a clear leader, and they seemed to care neither for tactics nor injury to themselves or their comrades, as long as they managed to damage their adversaries in some way. Bond had found it was much more like fighting a horde of rabid dogs than an enemy squadron of trained soldiers. However, Bond did not think now was the time to go into such detail with the mage, especially since a "simple mercenary" like himself would not know the historical reasons behind the practical application of funerary fires.

"How comforting," the mage deadpanned. "Now I know I cannot count on common sense from anyone that waves a sword about and calls it a job."

"Hey," Bond said, "this sword-waver saved you from a few nasty bites."

The mage sighed and gave Bond a weary smile, "That you did."


	7. A Satisfactory Holt

The two ran without speaking for a time, only slowing when a small boom came from the direction of the camp as one of the burning trees fell to the ground. "I hope you weren't overly attached to anything in that camp," the mage said, and glanced over his shoulder.

Bond shook his head. He had left everything dear to him much farther behind than the camp, and anything useful that could have been gathered from the camp could be replaced.

"Good. Because from the sounds of it, the fire has taken it," true to his word, the entire forest where the camp had been was now a blazing inferno, evident by the glow it emitted into the air, even at the distance they now stood from it. The conjured fire appeared to have met the campfire and freed it from the careful restraints the mercenaries had placed around it. Smoke billowed from trees and foliage that had been set ablaze, caught like casualties of war trapped in the crossfire. The roaring of the unconstrained fire was only broken by the occasional unearthly, triumphant yowls of the dead as they slew their hapless quarry.

"Not one spelled blade in your entire arsenal," muttered the mage, continuing to gaze behind them. "Is anyone really trying to fight them?" He still seemed to be fighting his own internal battle, against the desire to stop and turn back. "They'll die, and every death only serves to strengthen our foe. Their only real hope is to run and get to a river or a Charter Stone before the Dead block the way."

Unbidden, a line of an adage he had been taught as a young child sprung to the forefront of Bond's thoughts: _'When the dead do walk seek water's run, for this the dead will always shun...'_

However, unlike the dead in the childhood rhyme, these monstrosities were not walking, but running, sprinting, loping: moving as fast as their dead bodies could chase after the delicious scent of blood and the trace of life he, any other fleeing mercenaries, and the mage were leaving.

"They know they can't fight the Dead. You told them," Bond said as he insistently pulled on the mage's arm to urge him back into motion. "They must be running, just like we are."

"Not necessarily;" the mage argued, "my compulsion didn't take." He dragged his feet and stared at the foreboding, fire-lit sky in behind them, "They might be trying to fight, like you did, and without proper weapons, they'll die."

"It did take," Bond responded reluctantly. He had no choice but to divulge the truth, despite the ramifications to his cover such a disclosure might cause. At any rate, it did not seem likely he would be returning to the mercenary troupe, and, at the present moment, it was more important to dispel any notions the mage might be attempting to concoct about undertaking a futile rescue effort that would merely result in their unnecessary deaths.

Their pursuers were gaining on them every second they stood still. Time was of the utmost essence, and they had none to spare on second thoughts.

"What?" the mage's head snapped around to look at Bond. To Bond's relief, the mage's surprise allowed the agent to get them trotting at a reasonable pace once again.

"I know a counter-spell to compulsions," Bond admitted to force the mage's mental skirmish to an end, and increased their speed.

"When d–" the mage began, but before he could question Bond, the pair broke through the last of the brush and trees to the dark expanse of swift river they sought, engorged by the snowmelt Spring brought from the nearby mountains.

They both stopped short, but the mage, distracted, reacted just a moment too slowly. Bond instinctively grabbed the back of the mage's robe to prevent him from falling off the muddy escarpment and into the rapids below.

"Th-Thanks," the mage said, seemingly unaware he was gripping the agent's overcoat as he caught his breath.

Bond stiffened as he felt what he now knew to be a bell bandolier underneath the mage's charred robe press against him fleetingly. He mentally reminded himself he did owe the man his life, and this mage—or whatever else he might be—needed the moment to reorient himself.

The agent waited until his overcoat was released before asking the obvious question, "Now what?" They had reached the river, but leaping into such rapids almost assured their untimely demise as much as staying on land; although, he was seriously considering the risk, given the increasing volume of the Dead's screeching calls behind them.

The mage was already working his hands into another spell casting position, and a flash of reddish gold light cut into the prodigious trunk of a Rowan several yards from them.

The tree had already been leaning dangerously over the river due to the Spring flood water loosening the soil at its base. With the additional disequilibrium added by the mage's slicing spell, it came crashing thunderously down. Thick branches tore through other foliage, mud, and earth as the mighty Rowan plunged into the river.

Had the mage not been standing between Bond and the river, both men would have been thoroughly drenched. As it was, the mage took the brunt of the muddy wave, although he was neither tall nor broad enough to shield Bond completely.

Bond's eyebrow twitched and a few chilly droplets fell from his hair onto his—thankfully still mostly dry—fur-lined overcoat before he abruptly grabbed the front of the mage's sopping robe and swung him around to face him, "What did you do that for?! Now they know exactly where we are!" Second thoughts of trusting this potentially dangerous sorcerer were exploding into his mind again.

The mage gave him a grin that was half mirthful alacrity, and half devious cunning, "They think they do. In this case, darkness is _our_ ally as well as theirs. Can you make out anything in the branches of that tree?"

Bond turned from the mage's face to the felled Rowan, and conceded that, in the darkness of the new moon, it was impossible to tell if there was anything—or anyone—amongst the branches and thick, spring leaves.

"I certainly can't," the mage continued, as the tree was quickly hauled away by the river's relentless pull. "My eyesight is not particularly good, but that's beside the point. They will think we are using that tree to get away." He began to carefully navigate the incline towards the rushing water. In the wake of its destructive descent, felled tree had serendipitously made the path to the river significantly less treacherous. "That said, they will probably still check to make certain, so we should do our best to hide."

"Why aren't we," Bond asked dubiously, with more trepidation focused on the man in front of him than the uneven, slippery ground on which he made his way after the mage, "actually using the tree to get away?" He kept one hand free to take hold of his falchion at any moment as he too descended the muddy ledge.

"Because humans are not the only creatures that can be brought back from the dead," the mage motioned skywards. "Crows are a favorite of necromancers. They're clever in life, and retain some of their shrewd nature even in death. The tree will doubtless be followed by our enemies." The mage's soft boots squelched in the mud as he clambered awkwardly downward in a way that could not truthfully be called climbing due to its disorganized and inelegant nature. "Hopefully, even tomorrow they will be too distracted by the tree to come for us here." There was a splash, followed by a gasp and a mild curse, "It's freezing!"

"Of course it is," Bond responded, feeling a pang of sympathy for the woefully underdressed and sodden mage, despite his rekindled suspicions. "It's snowmelt." Even through his thoroughly waterproof boots, Bond still felt the chill of the gelid water through the layers of leather and thick, wool socks as he splashed into muddy water below. The water level at Bond's legs was several inches below knee-deep in what could have been called a pool, carved out by the falling tree, if not for the treacherous current that pervaded its entirety, and pulled inexorably towards the deep, rushing water of the river proper. Bond lifted the dripping edge of his fur-lined winter coat out of the water and fastened it above his thighs to keep it from soaking up any more moisture, wishing he had thought to do so before plunging after the mage.

"Were you expecting a tropical paradise?" the agent teased, unable to suppress a feeling of amusement at the disparity between the mage's clinical, didactic tone when providing Bond with information and the sudden, candid, atavistic exclamation brought forth by the mage's plunge into the frigid water. In addition to that, the way the spellcaster was holding himself looked utterly ridiculous: his shoulders were hunched and he held his hands up and half-curled in an instinctive recoil he could not complete, as the source of his discomfort entirely surrounded his legs. Instead, the mage stood frozen in place, as if remaining perfectly still would prevent the water from chilling him any further.

He thawed enough to shoot the agent a positively venomous look, "If I was, I certainly would have chosen more amicable company." Clearly, the shock of the piercingly cold water had robbed the spellcaster of his previous gaiety.

Bond chuckled as the capricious mage turned away from the agent without waiting for a response and shifted his focus to finding a way to navigate through the perilous water. Despite himself and all his wariness regarding the slight man, Bond was truly enjoying exchanging conversation with this enigmatic, sharp-tongued mage. Even the incipient danger this mysterious spellcaster represented was beginning to excite him in a way he had not experienced in years.

All things considered, they had both been lucky in their unplanned alliance. The mage's ingenuity, knowledge, and aptitude with magic had already proved more than useful, and what proficiency in physical altercations the mage lacked was more than made up for by the agent's extensive skill in and knowledge of combat. Instinct only years of experience could bring, and practical survival tactics the agent could provide would undoubtedly come in handy in the near future as well, especially considering it was more than two day's journey on foot from any civilization.

That is, provided they managed to survive the night.

If the shudder that went up the mage's spine as he moved cautiously through the frigid water was any indication, Bond figured the mage's soft boots—which were clearly not made for heavy traveling—were not waterproof. After the unexpected battle and subsequent flight, the mage’s boots were also likely in the same generally dilapidated state as his torn, burnt robe and unlaundered, sooty surcoat, leaving his socks to gradually gather icy moisture, as water seeped through the soft boots. For a moment Bond wondered if the mage had spelled his boots to be waterproof and warm, like his gloves, but the thought was driven from his mind as he watched a small wave of muddy river water completely wash over the mage's boots as the two moved onward. Despite the mage's lanky, long-limbed frame, he was submerged to his knees, which allowed the unforgiving current to slosh icy water into his boots freely, leaving the question of whether or not the mage's footwear was waterproof a moot point.

Bond's height allowed his own knee-high boots to retain a safe distance above the water line as they carefully made their way along the slippery, cliff-like river bank, keeping him, for the most part, mercifully dry. He did not envy the feeling of snowmelt water on his toes the mage was doubtless suffering. Bits of broken ice still occasionally flowed down the river from time to time: a testament to how tightly winter still tried to cling to the land and how close the two currently were to the snowy mountain peaks that provided the majority of the engorged river's treacherously swift water.

"I thought the Dead perished under sunlight," Bond said, bringing the topic back to the most pressing matter at hand: the idea that the Dead could possibly locate them during the day. He had been placated when the sounds of the Dead did indeed seem to have changed course to instead follow the progress of the tree in the river, rather than continue straight towards them, but he still remained on high alert. Bond strained to listen for any sound that might signal danger, although it was hard to hear much over the overwhelming noise of the gushing river.

"Some, like Shadow Hands, are especially vulnerable to sunlight." The mage gripped at protruding roots to prevent the rushing water from dragging him along with the current as it had the great Rowan he had felled, and gingerly navigated his way to a hollow beneath a small, muddy cliff the river had carved into the earth with the first torrential rush of Spring melt water. "With time, all the Dead will perish under the light of the sun. It corrodes them. That's why they hide away from the sunlight during the day, but a well-made Hand can be forced to walk under the sun by a necromancer, although they decay and degrade much faster when exposed to sunlight. There are also spells—or loopholes, rather—that can fortify something Dead against daylight. Spells that a necromancer of this caliber is likely to know," the mage answered concisely and quietly, "and we cannot yet discount the possibility of a cloudy day tomorrow, which would only serve them further—unless the clouds bring rain as well." The level of the glacial water was only minutely shallower than it had been when the pair were outside the small hollow, but the current in the concavity had been significantly lessened, though not entirely stymied, by an exiguous, but adequate, barrier of collapsed earth and vegetation.

Within the concavity, they had the benefit of running water beneath their feet, and a small, but sufficient roof overhead to shield them from view. At first, Bond had been dubious of the hollow's structural integrity, especially of the overhang above them, but upon closer inspection, it appeared to be relatively secure, held in place by the sturdy roots of several trees even larger than the one the mage had hewn down.

Bond nodded slowly, but regarded the mage with even more suspicion than before. How did this "healer" know so much about necromancy? Eventually, Bond asked, "What about snow?" thinking it much more probable than rain. The agent knew rain was inimical to the Dead, but was uncertain if snow had the same effect. He leaned out of the concavity to get a better look outside in order to gauge the next day's potential weather, but did not turn his back to the mage, keeping the man in his line of sight as he examined the sky. Both rain and snow seemed highly unlikely, given the cloudless, starry night.

The mage opened his mouth to respond, but before he could begin to answer the agent's query, he snapped his mouth shut and stiffened visibly.

For several, uncomfortably long seconds, the mage stood curiously silent and still, and then, quite abruptly, he commanded in a sharp hiss, "Come back inside."

"Why?" suspicions running at an all-time high, Bond did the opposite of what he was told, though he did keep his voice to a whisper. He began to step out of the small, muddy holt, only to be caught by the spellcaster's wiry grip and hauled back inside.

Had Bond been prepared for the force of the tug, he certainly could have broken free, but the strength of it surprised him enough to pull him flush against the mage.

"Dead Hands," the mage whispered into his ear, "searching."

Bond remained completely still then, the pair as frozen as the ice that occasionally swept by, caught in the river's flow, save for the carefully measured breaths that immediately clouded into condensation before their lips.

Soon, the sound of small branches cracking and half-frozen, fallen leaves crunching beneath lurching, ill-balanced footsteps could be heard near the steep bank above their little cavern, despite the roaring of the river.

Thankfully, the steps were random. Their pursuers were seeking, but not with any clear intent, and, eventually, after several tense minutes that felt as if they had stretched to hours, the footsteps lead away.

The mage eased and Bond took it as a sign that the creature or creatures had gone beyond the realm of overhearing them, but still he whispered, "Are they gone?"

"Yes," responded the mage, drawing away from Bond to peer cautiously into the night from their meager shelter. Unlike Bond, he had no qualms about exposing his back to the other man.

 _'Careless,'_ Bond thought as he gazed at the open target of which he could easily take advantage. Strangely, Bond's consideration concerning the spellcaster's rookie mistake was a thought that passed through Bond's mind free of any contempt. Instead, a strange, unbidden desire to guard the mage's unshielded back ignited within him. The unexpected emotion surprised him, and he almost missed the mage's next words as he forcibly reminded himself the man was a _necromancer_ and his impulse, as a loyal agent of the Royal Guard, sworn to defend the Kingdom and its people, should be to slay the man, not to protect him.

The mage pulled back into the hollow. "Something powerful must be driving them for them to have come so close to a river—especially one this daunting. The Dead normally avoid running water at all costs... and fire, too, but that did not stop their attack, either..." he paused thoughtfully, pensive. "There are more complex machinations at work here than I anticipated... or was prepared for," the mage sighed and pulled his sodden robe more tightly around him. "Fortunately for us, those were only Dead Hands searching for us, and, with the help of the river, they did not sense us, or they mixed us up with some other life form—one they were not seeking—like a fox, or a l-lynx."

On that last word, the slight tremors the mage had been stalwartly fighting since he had first dropped into the icy river water rapidly devolved into violent shivering, and Bond realized that up until that point, the mage had been running on adrenaline. Bond had seen it countless times with new recruits, and occasionally even with seasoned guards; they would push themselves past their limits, and once the danger had passed, they would collapse, spent beyond their capacity.

Now that the immediate danger had passed, the waterlogged mage was feeling the effects of his rash overexertion. Bond was also starkly aware he had no idea how much energy it had cost the mage to cast the undeniably powerful spells he had witnessed, nor how many he had cast before coming across the mercenary troupe.

One thing he did know, however, was that now, knee-deep in ice-cold water, hypothermia was a definite possibility—especially this early in Spring, and this far North, where winter always clutched fiercely to the land. Not only that, but, despite a deceptively strong grip, the mage really did not look like much more than skin and bones. Such a stick of a creature was certainly not built to withstand the temperatures of a northern night at this time of year. 

With the help of the starlight reflecting off of the water, Bond looked the mage up and down, from the disheveled, damp hair he had pushed out of his dark eyes, to where his sopping trousers met the murky water. It was hard to think of this shaking, wire-thin androgyne as a dangerous necromancer, despite the nefarious bandolier he knew was hidden beneath the sodden robe.

"What?" the mage asked petulantly, clearly not having missed Bond's inspection.

Bond momentarily wondered what expression he had been wearing before he schooled his features and allowed himself to only display irritation at their situation.

Bond would survive the night. It would not be a pleasant experience; it was cold and damp in their small, muddy holt, but Bond was wearing winter battle gear, and they were sheltered from the wind, the river's full current, and any unexpectedly large ice floes. In addition, and he had not been caught in the full deluge caused by the falling tree, and was mostly dry. The mage on the other hand...

As if to punctuate his thoughts to prove him right, the mage sneezed.

"You need to dry off," Bond said. "Can you cast anything for that?"

"Yes," the mage stated, as if it was an insult to assume he could not conduct such a menial task, "of course."

There was a long pause, as Bond waited for the mage to cast the spell. After a few long, silent moments, only punctuated by the sound of the river outside their small shelter, Bond finally prompted, "Well?"

"I c-can't use it," he said quietly, humbled voice further marred by his shivering.

"Why not?" Bond almost forgot to whisper in his frustration.

"I-If the n-necromancer or the D-Dead are a-anywhere n-nearb-by, c-casting a spell will be like a b-beacon for th-them," the bedraggled spellcaster explained.

That was a very good reason, Bond mentally conceded, all frustration swept away as rapidly as if it had been caught and taken by the river's unrelenting current.

"Have you ever been this far north before?" Bond asked, as he searched his mind for a possible solution to their predicament—or rather, the mage's predicament—that did not involve magic.

"No," the mage responded.

"I didn't think so," concern and exasperation fought for dominance in his tone.

"L-Look, it wasn't exactly m-my idea to get c-caught up here–" Bond cut him off by pressing a hand to his chest. This silenced the mage immediately, and he took a step back. Bond had only touched the spellcaster's sternum, but his palm had come close to the bandolier hidden beneath the dripping robe.

Putting his curiosity and foreboding about the bandolier aside, Bond firmly said, "Let's at least try to get you out of the water."

"All r-right," the mage agreed, "but h-how? It w-won't be s-safe to l-l-leave the r-river until d-d-dawn."

Bond felt along the walls of their small shelter, and found what he was looking for: a small shelf, created by a particularly tenacious tree root.

"Come here," Bond commanded, and the mage sloshed towards him without argument. The lethargy with which the mage moved was not a good sign. Either he was becoming too exhausted to pull his feet more than a few centimeters above the hollow's water-concealed floor as he fought even the lessened current within the concavity, or the cold had begun to set in and take hold of the mage faster than Bond had anticipated. Bond picked him up, eliciting an affronted squall from the mage that reminded Bond forcefully of a cat whose tail has been unexpectedly trodden upon. "Quiet," Bond hissed, although he had his doubts anyone would associate such a noise with a human.

The agent set the disgruntled, but obediently quiet, mage onto the root. Once the mage caught on to Bond's objective, he wriggled himself into the slot. Bond was thankful, though unsurprised, that the diminutive mage fit on the shelf. He was surprised, however, when, in a weird feat of flexibility half hidden by the gloom, the mage slid behind the root, placing himself between the earthen wall and the root. Still shaking, the mage leaned forward, putting what weight he could on the root now in front of him to keep himself off of the muddy wall behind him as much as possible, and tucked his legs underneath himself to keep them out of the water.

With the mage's wriggling, there was enough space on one side for Bond to seat himself as well, and the mage gestured for him to take the spot.

Bond hesitated, but only for a moment, figuring, at the very least, the shared body heat it would provide benefit them both.

The agent sat beside the mage, though he had to lean forward significantly and did not have space to tuck his feet beneath him as the mage did. However, he did not need to keep his feet out of the water. They were still dry in leather boots and woolen socks.

After that, they sat in silence for some time, and, eventually, the mage's spasmodic tremors eased.

\---

"Dry yet?" Bond asked, after some time had past.

"You tell me," the mage smacked a moist sleeve against Bond's face.

"You little–"

"Did you see my bells?" the mage asked abruptly.

"... Yes," Bond responded cautiously. The agent had never before met a necromancer not blatantly obviously guilty of heinous crimes, and this encounter was certainly not what he had expected: owing a necromancer his life, becoming subsequently trapped with the very same necromancer in a small holt in a riverbed, hiding from the Dead, and fighting hypothermia. However, all he had been taught, told, and had experienced still made his hand hover once again near the hilt of his falchion.

The spellcaster sighed, "I suppose you know what they're for?" He prodded the Charter mark on Bond's head with a gloved hand, and it truly was like the glove was not there at all, as his Charter mark flashed a warm gold with the touch, " _You_ are one of only three with a baptismal Charter mark that I counted in that whole group."

"Necromancy," Bond growled, simultaneously irked by the trespass of his personal space and the thought of necromancy, before it really occurred to him to think on what the mage—the necromancer—had said.

"Why did you save my life?" Bond asked, genuinely curious. Twice—maybe three times, if he counted the stunt with the tree—at this point, but Bond was not going to keep score aloud. Of all the people in the band, those with baptismal Charter marks were the most likely to recognize a necromancer. With that in mind, and the obvious battle skills Bond ostensibly possessed in order to be part of a mercenary band, choosing to keep Bond alive put the spellcaster at more risk than letting him die.

The mage smiled enigmatically, and returned, "Why did you save mine?" He paused briefly, and then asked with even more measured words, "And why are you still trying to save it?"

Bond did not respond. He could still kill this bearer of necromantic bells. Easily. But it was obvious that, at present, they had a common enemy. Survival with a skilled spellcaster—and an admittedly talented tactician—as an ally would certainly be easier than trying to face a powerful necromancer alone.

"The enemy of my enemy," Bond finally answered.

"Indeed."

They both maintained a long, poignant silence, before the mage said briskly, "Well, now that we've established that, I can take the bloody thing off." The mage removed his robe and draped it over the root. Almost immediately, he began to shiver again. With his shaking hands, the mage undid the buckle of the bandolier as delicately as he could, and then attempted to buckle it around the root to ensure it would not fall into the water.

Bond took pity on the spellcaster just as the mage began to remove his gloves to get a better grip on the buckle, and swiftly fastened it to prevent the mage from any unnecessary divesting of clothing. It was quite possible that, at this point, the mage's hands were the only part of him still dry.

As soon as he checked the buckle, the mage sneezed again, shaking with even more violence than before. He grabbed at his charred robe, but Bond took hold of his shaking wrists and easily prevented him from putting back on the sopping garment. 

The mage looked at Bond with large, dark eyes full of surprise and hurt.

"It won't do you any good to put that wet thing back on," Bond explained briskly, but kindly, recognizing the confusion in the mage's eyes. "Come here," Bond pulled the small mage—the _necromancer_ , Bond had to keep reminding himself—closer. 

The mage made a small noise of protest, but it died almost immediately as Bond enveloped him within his thick, outer coat. The protest became a purr-like mewl as the mage gripped the warm, fur lining and nuzzled into Bond's side, trying to burrow as much of himself into the warmth as he could.

The agent almost startled. Even through the other layers of canvas, mail, and fabric, he could feel the mage seeking warmth, and the mage was _cold_. Even more astounding, however, was the way the spellcaster had gone from being as composed and aloof as he could be, given the situation, to something akin to a starved kitten.

He really should not have been surprised, Bond told himself. The other man was, at the very least, suffering from mild hypothermia. Being that cold did odd things to you. Bond had witnessed people freezing near death attempt to strip off their clothes in the snow, claiming it was as hot as a desert. Abruptly, Bond found himself wondering what this mysterious spellcaster might look like half-naked in the snow, and was not at all displeased with mental images the notion brought, unbidden, into his mind.

Bond quashed the thoughts forcefully, returned to his senses as the mage—the  _necromancer_ —shifted to gain further access into Bond's coat. Being cold did strange things to the mind, he reminded himself. 

The agent leaned his body gently sideways to allow both men greater contact. It was solely for the sake of maintaining warmth, he told himself firmly. Bond kept watch and listened to the sounds of the night intently, as much as the starlight and the roar of the river would allow. An owl hooted nearby, and the playful yip of a fox met his ears: ordinary sounds of the forest had returned as the Dead meandered further and further away. Despite his best efforts, the agent found himself drifting to sleep as inexorably as the current pulled along ice floes and flotsam down the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, we get a remixed version of Skyfall's meeting between Bond and Q... 
> 
> (That bit is already written, but I don't want to give you a chapter that is too short, so please bear with me!)


	8. Riverside Revelations

An indeterminate amount of time later, predawn began to bring light to the forest around their holt, and Bond awoke. The agent was stiff from having slept in the awkward position seated on the small, muddy shelf, but, Bond gratefully noted, he was definitely not as cold as he would have been sleeping anywhere else in the moist hollow.

Over the course of the night, the mage slipped even further sideways, and was now laying across Bond's lap. The spellcaster looked even younger in his sleep; fine lines of coiled stress and anxiety smoothed away by the blissful reprieve of unconsciousness. As the mage shifted minutely, drawing one arm more tightly to his chest while allowing the other to fall across Bond's knees, the agent was even more powerfully reminded of a feline—albeit a giant, uncomfortably bony one. 

Bond had not planned on falling asleep, knowing all too well falling asleep in the cold bore the risk of never waking again, but his exhaustion had been too much to fight. He felt much more alert and hale thanks to the several hours of rest, despite the uncomfortable position in which he had succumbed to sleep. After taking quick stock of himself, Bond turned his full attention to the mage.

A smile slid, unbidden, across Bond's face as the mage's finger's twitched, as if grasping at something, like a cat dreaming of pouncing upon a mouse... or a necromancer gripping the handle of a bell. 

The agent's smile dropped faster than a lead brick in a vat of oil. It was extraordinarily difficult to think of the waterlogged, gangly youth as a dangerous, malevolent necromancer. The adjective "dangerous" Bond freely admitted was an apt assessment of the spellcaster, having witnessed the frankly astonishing level of power the diminutive mage had displayed. Malevolent, though? The events of the previous night simply did not add up to that conclusion. There were too many factors at play, and Bond did not yet possess enough information to fully understand the spellcaster's true motivations nor his intentions. All this aside, possession of the necromantic bell bandolier alone would have ordinarily been enough to condemn the man, and yet, some undefinable reflex within Bond rebelled against the notion the mage possessed wicked or malicious intent.

Setting aside the quandary of conflicting evidence regarding the spellcaster, Bond instead focused on something for which he could glean enough evidence to come to a reasonably sound conclusion: the mage's—or necromancer's—overall physical status. By observing the sleeping man's regular breaths, and feeling the warmth radiating from the mage through his thick garments, Bond concluded the spellcaster was no longer hypothermic, but the agent removed his gauntlet and set two fingers onto the pulse point of the mage's neck to check the man's physical status all the same. As he had expected, the skin under his hand was warm, and the pulse was steady. It was even a tad fast by his reckoning—not at all the sluggish beat associated with the dangerous hypothermia the mage had been flirting with the previous night. 

"Good morning to you, too." Either the mage had already been awake, or had been woken by Bond's movement. By the sound of the drowsy rasp in the mage's voice, Bond guessed the latter. "Feel my Charter mark, while you're at it," the mage mumbled sleepily. 

Bond felt his eyebrow lift in wary curiosity, but could not think of how, in their present position, with the mage nearly completely in his lap, and at least half-asleep, this request could possibly be used against him, so he complied. 

As he had seen the mage perform what appeared to be Charter Magic, he expected the spellcaster was relatively new to necromancy and other forms of Free Magic. After years of training to prepare for the worst, Bond also reluctantly considered the possibility all the spells he had witnessed were Free Magic sorcery disguised as Charter Magic spells—after all, Charter Magic and Free Magic were antithetical. The more one used Free Magic, the less one could call upon the Charter. Still, Bond found himself mentally giving the mage the benefit of the doubt, and expected the Charter mark to not be a guise, but a mark only faintly tainted with the use of Free Magic. The extent to which corruption permeated the mark would tell him how practiced with Free Magic this spellcaster really was.

To his surprise, there was a flash of pure, unadulterated gold as he touched the mage's forehead Charter mark, and Bond felt the uncorrupted flow of the Charter through the baptismal mark. It was exactly the result he would have expected from a practiced Charter Mage, before he had laid eyes upon the unmistakable bandolier of bells. 

Bond's index and middle finger hovered over the mark before he touched it again, just to assure himself it had not been some trick or illusion. 

It was no trick. There was the Charter, unsullied, and so powerfully connected to this mage, Bond felt he could fall right into it through the touch of his callused fingers upon the baptismal mark alone. "It isn't possible," Bond said, after he removed his two fingers from the mage's forehead. "You're a necromancer." Could the mage have so recently come to decide to take up necromancy that he had yet to wield a single Free Magic spell? 

"I won't deny I have walked in Death," the mage said, immediately removing the possibility that he had not utilized Free Magic in some form, "but in full light, you'll want to look at my bells again." 

Bond's gaze immediately went to the bandolier suspended from the exposed tree root, but the sun had not yet crested the horizon, and it was still only a tenebrous shape in the dim predawn light, hanging alongside the singed wool robe. 

A tone of mischief entered the mage's voice as he continued, "You're not the only one with a secret," he reached down and pulled the Charter-spelled dagger halfway out of Bond's boot, and then pushed it back into its concealed sheath, "007."

A cold, numb feeling crept up the agent's spine as he recalled past incidents he had been called "007" by anyone outside MI staff. "I don't know what you–" 

"Oh, stop," Bond had the distinct impression the mage was referring to the hand Bond had been inching towards his sheathed sword as well as the agent's fictitious statement.

The mage began to laboriously extricate himself from Bond, surrendering the heat gleaned from physical contact in favor of being able to continue the conversation from a more dignified position. "It isn't necessary, although I'm sure M would appreciate the dedication," despite the controlled, imperious air of the mage's words, a slightly halting edge to his movements made it obvious to Bond's trained eye the mage's decision to rise had not quite fully percolated to his extremities and overruled his body's involuntary desire to maintain warmth.

Unlike the agent, who could immediately snap from sleep to complete consciousness and full attention, the spellcaster appeared to require a bit more time to fully engage with the waking world, like a forge gradually heating to its necessary temperature after its fire had been kindled.

Miraculously, the mage still managed to maintain most of his dignity as he unfolded himself and transformed from sleepy, warmth-seeking barnacle into what was clearly his most comfortable and regular persona: a punctilious Charter Mage with a unique, but undeniably authoritative presence, and an air of masterful competency. It had been the very same when the Charter Mage had commanded the tent of mercenaries less than half a day prior. "I am informed of what supplies every agent in the field is outfitted with, and, in the case of undercover operations, I am privy to the details of agents' covers as well," with each passing moment, his voice gained more strength, inertia, and the clinical, yet not _quite_ impersonal tone Bond had come to expect from the mage as the skinny, young man secured his grip upon wakefulness.

Bond's coiled muscles began to loosen as the mage continued to elaborate. The murky mysteries of conflicting evidence and ostensible contradictions that surrounded the caliginous riddle of the mage's identity like a thick, costal fog were finally beginning to clear.

"I will grant you did an exceptionally good job hiding your identity. I honestly still had my doubts, even after you confirmed you knew how to dispel a compulsion, until I found the dagger in your boot." He paused, sneezed into the elbow of his surcoat, and then deadpanned, "Unless 007 died in that battle, and you really are simply a supremely talented mercenary that just so happens to match his physical description, in which case, welcome aboard. You are now a Royal Agent of her Majesty's Information." 

"You don't have the authority to hire a new agent," Bond shot back, "even if you are the Abhorsen-in-Waiting." Within the Kingdom, the only people in possession of necromantic bells, the ability to wield said instruments, and the power to walk in Death and _return_ , yet still bear uncorrupted Charter marks were the Abhorsen—who Bond knew for a fact was at least forty years older than this precocious mage—and the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Pieces of the puzzle hinting at the enigmatic inconnu's identity fell into place with the revelation: the reason the mage had arrived when he had, his unique looks and attire, the evasive answers, his ability to sense the Dead from such a distance, his apparent guilt when unable to save the mercenaries from the Dead, the bells, and _nearly_ everything else. 

"You've figured it out—at least, you've figured out the relevant reason regarding my current presence in this absurdly rural geographical location. I should have expected nothing less much from the renowned agent 007." It was extraordinarily difficult for Bond to discern whether the mage's words were spoken with sarcasm or sincerity, and Bond was not granted the opportunity to do so before the mage continued speaking. "I am the Abhorsen-in-Waiting," the mage affirmed, though the disclosure gave no further hint to his previous statement's tonal ambiguity, "and you are, of course, correct: M has the final say over who does or does not become an agent, but don't be so quick to dismiss my influence within MI." 

Before Bond could voice a query as to how the opinion of the Kingdom's absentee Abhorsen-in-Waiting could have any sway within MI outside of matters regarding the Dead or Free Magic, the Charter Mage supplied the answer.

"007," the Abhorsen-in-Waiting said with smooth formality, somehow exuding an air of prim, stately authority despite his muddied clothes, sleep-tousled hair, and generally disheveled appearance. "I'm your new Quartermaster." 

Bond stared at the river beyond their small, damp shelter, at the rushing water and forest above it, where the world was slowly, but steadily, being lit by the dawn. "You must be joking." 

It was one thing to send the Abhorsen-in-Waiting out on a mission where sightings of the Dead had been reported; it was the Abhorsen and her successor's duty to handle such affairs. It was an entirely different matter to put a young lad in charge of an entire branch of an agency upon which the Kingdom heavily depended to maintain peace and defend innocent lives. 

"Why? Because I'm not wearing a leather apron?" the Abhorsen-in-Waiting asked in a mildly sardonic tone. 

"Because you still have spots." Was this truly the same boy he had seen in the palace hall three decades ago? 

"My complexion is hardly relevant," the Abhorsen-in-Waiting responded impassively. 

"Your competence is," Bond stated. 

"Age is no guarantee of efficiency," the mage quipped. 

"And youth is no guarantee of innovation," Bond returned in kind. 

"I'd hazard I can do more damage with the sendings I conjure and spells I cast, sitting in my nightclothes before my first cup of tea than you can do in a year in the field," the slight mage said with unparalleled, calm self-assurance. 

"Oh, so why do you need me?" Bond asked dryly. 

The mage gave the merest of shrugs and replied evenly, "Every now and then a dagger has to be thrown."

"Or not thrown," Bond finally looked at the young Quartermaster. A smile tugged at the corners of the agent's lips, "It's hard to know which in your nightclothes." Bond enjoyed the sharp clash of words, and felt his confidence in the man rise with each clever remark exchanged in the verbal spar. "Q," Bond added to his statement, acknowledging his acceptance of the man's position as his Quartermaster as well as the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. 

Q turned to the agent at the utterance of his codename and a smile that was simultaneously demure, bold, and just a touch mischievous slid onto his vulpine face, "007."

Bond lifted his hand to perform the formal greeting gesture for those that bore a baptismal Charter mark.

Q mirrored Bond's actions and lifted his own hand to press his fingers against Bond's baptismal Charter mark, in doing so granting unspoken permission for Bond to complete the greeting. 

Though Bond had already felt the unsullied flow of the Charter though the mage's forehead Charter mark, he placed two fingers upon the baptismal mark once again, this time solely for the sake of greeting. The agent felt the comfortable warmth on his own forehead as his mark was simultaneously touched and tested for purity by his Quartermaster. 

They dropped their hands, maintained eye contact for a brief moment, and then the Abhorsen-in-Waiting turned to look out upon the river instead, like a cat suddenly hearing the sound of a scrabbling rat. His gaze was just a tad unfocused, revealing his attention was not upon the snowmelt water before his eyes. Doubtless, he was feeling for any presence of the Dead still lurking about with the death sense granted to him by his Abhorsen blood. 

Light was beginning to lift the gloom in their little shelter, and Bond was finally able to make out the embroidered shapes on the mage's surcoat. The river water had washed away enough soot to reveal its true color: a dark blue, embroidered in silver. Quartered along with the Abhorsen's unmistakable sigil of silver keys was another repeating shape denoted in stitches of the thick, embroidery thread: trowels, the symbol of the Wallmakers. 

That sigil alone explained not only why the Abhorsen-in-Waiting did not fully display the stereotypical features of an Abhorsen, but also how and why he additionally held the position of Quartermaster in MI. 

Unlike Boothroyd, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting would be unable to keep his status as a Wallmaker obscure and up to speculation, due to the necessity of wearing the formal attire which denoted his station as Abhorsen-in-Waiting. The surcoat made it quite evident what he was in addition to the Abhorsen's successor. Whomever—or whatever—made the ceremonial surcoats the Abhorsen and Abhorsen-in-Waiting wore wove Charter Magic into every stitch, seam, and fiber, and either this, or the weavers themselves, did not allow a person to don one of the Abhorsen's silver keyed surcoats unless they bore the right, and, evidently, additionally did not allow for the omission of any sigils that would denote full extent of the wearer's magical gifts. 

It suddenly became blatantly obvious why so many new weapons and tools had been forthcoming during Bond's time as a royal agent. Whether or not Boothroyd had indeed been a Wallmaker—as Bond firmly believed—there had been at least one Wallmaker hard at work creating weapons and tools alike for MI's agents. 

The young mage, intent on something Bond could neither hear nor see,  
not only held the portentous station of Abhorsen-in-Waiting, but had also been given the position of Quartermaster in MI. It was no small wonder the mage looked so haggard, even when they had first met, before the calamitous events of the previous night. Bond did not envy the mage's weighty obligations. 

Despite the heavy responsibilities upon his shoulders, and the sickly pallor of his skin, the mage's eyes were bright and lively, though the shadows of exhaustion beneath them had deepened since Bond last had a reasonably clear view of the mage's face. 

"Anything out there?" Bond inquired after a few moments of silence. 

"Nothing nearby," Q replied, looking as relieved as Bond felt with the statement. "A few gore crows are about—two are directly downriver—but the Hands and Shadow Hands have moved on, and, presumably, the necromancer has as well," Q turned away from the river to wriggle out from behind the tree root. His boots hit the water with a splash and a shudder ran up his body, but he controlled the shaking and began to unfasten his bell bandolier from the root. 

Bond felt his eyebrows draw together in growing concern for Q's physical condition. The slight mage was clearly still suffering from exhausting himself the night before. Despite the firm clarity of his voice and renewed alertness of gaze, remaining in this damp, cold environment would not do him any favors. The sooner they could be warm and dry—or at least out of the frigid river water—the better. 

"We should stay under as much tree cover as we can to avoid catching the attention of the gore crows," Q said, after getting the momentary shivering under control. 

Bond, preferring the idea of staying under the light of the sun once they managed to make their way out of the river, pointed out, "I'm sure if it's only a few gore crows, I could fight them off if they attacked." Gore crows usually came in flocks, so it surprised him that there were so few. These Dead creatures were created by necromancers through a ritual in which they would kill a number of crows, and subsequently place a fragment of a single splintered spirit in each deceased avian body. A few gore crows would be easy to dispatch, but a flock could fell even the most seasoned warrior with scores of sharp beaks and claws all aiming for their victim's vital weak points, such as the eyes and throat. 

"No," Q responded, without vehemence, but still in a tone that brooked no opposition. "These gore crows were likely made to be scouts, not warriors. The fewer gore crows made with a single spirit, the hardier each individual gore crow is, and the longer it can last under the sun." 

"They're searching for anyone who escaped last night," Bond stated with disgusted understanding, "to track and kill them."

"Dead men tell no tales," Q recited the old adage, buckled the bandolier about himself, and glanced at Bond briefly with twinkling eyes.

Bond's lips quirked in a smile, catching and appreciating the dark humor: the adage did not quite hold true for those who possessed the necromantic ability to enter Death and speak with departed spirits that had not yet past the Ninth Gate. 

"If a gore crow spots us, it will probably mark our position until nightfall, when other Dead can attack," the Abhorsen-in-Waiting shifted the bandolier so the bells lay securely across his chest as he spoke, and Bond saw what Q had meant when he had told the agent he would want to take a closer look at the instruments in the light of day. Q swiftly ran a hand over the bells, to assure himself each was secure in its leather pouch. Bond recognized the motion as perfunctory: a precautionary movement performed so many countless times before, it had become instinct. At the touch of Q's fingers, Charter marks briefly glowed, as if in greeting, and swam visibly upon the mahogany handles of the bells. Bond knew Charter marks would also be moving across the instruments' bright, silver bodies, but the metal portion of each bell was currently hidden from view and carefully silenced by the pouches and tongues of leather within. These bells, unlike the raw Free Magic voices of a necromancer's bells, maintained a delicate balance between Free and Charter Magic, and protected their wielder from the otherwise malignant effects of Free Magic. 

Any doubts Bond still harbored about the mage's claims were immediately banished with the sight of the simultaneously necromantic and Charter-spelled bells. 

"We probably aren't the only ones that got away, if there are some gore crows searching away from the river," Bond said, considering the facts. It was possible all the crows could be searching for them alone, but it seemed excessive to have more than a couple, or to have them straying far from where targets of pursuit were thought to be. 

Q hummed thoughtfully. "You are probably right. Let's hope your mercenary friends can stay out of their sight as well. This necromancer must have gone to great lengths to remain unnoticed long enough to have gathered as many Dead servants as he or she has. The easiest way to accomplish such relative invisibility is to leave no survivors."

"We must have really put a stick in that plan," Bond said with satisfaction. 

"Yes," Q agreed. "He or she was not expecting a 00 agent or a Charter Mage able to combat the Dead." 

Q sneezed and then looked mournfully at his wool robe. It was torn, scorched, and still damp from the battle the night before. 

"Can't you fix it," Bond asked, following Q's gaze to the bedraggled wool, "with a spell?" The agent hoped the sneeze was only a result of the bitingly cold water and chilly morning air, and not a herald for the onset of illness.

"Theoretically, yes. It is not a difficult: a weaving spell," Q reached for the muddy garment. "Casting spells upon inanimate objects had always come the most easily to me," he tugged the tattered robe on, over his surcoat and bandolier. For the first time, Bond noticed bloodstains around one of the tears in the back, near his left shoulder. "I mended my surcoat last night in the forest, but it is imbued with Charter Magic already, so it took nearly no effort at all. It _wanted_ to mend, so to speak. This robe is nothing more than ordinary wool," Q once again cinched the garment at his waist with a length of soft rope. "Even so, it wouldn't be terribly difficult, especially since some of my strength returned with the rest, but... I am still considerably drained," he admitted, "and I would rather save what strength I have for more important things, like getting out of this river." 

Bond was not surprised by Q's admission, and nodded in understanding. The Abhorsen-in-Waiting had spent an enormous amount of magical energy the previous day, and a considerable amount of physical energy, as well. Their strenuous run and subsequent wade through the frigid water of the river, battling its forceful current, had been no small feat. Q stifled a cough in the crook of his elbow, and Bond felt his jaw stiffen in mounting concern. 

They had no food, but Bond still had the waterskin from which Q had drank before the the Dead had initiated their attack upon the mercenaries' camp. Bond offered it to Q. 

The agent was too keen to miss Q's small, silent grimace of pain as he swallowed a mouthful of water. The mage was suffering from a sore throat, as well. Bond schooled his features into impartial impassivity whilst reminding himself that smoke inhalation could explain both the sore throat and the cough. However, he was all too aware Q's overexertion and the exposure to the cold night in sodden clothes meant it was a very real possibility his Quartermaster was now battling burgeoning illness as well as fatigue. Although Bond did not often indulge in optimism, for Q's sake, the agent allowed himself to cling to the hope that Q was merely cold, tired, and had taken too many smoke-laden breaths the previous night. 

Regardless of the reason or reasons why, the slight Quartermaster certainly looked as if he would benefit from more rest, but Bond knew they could not afford to waste daylight, nor stay in the damp holt any longer. Bond stowed away the waterskin and, with a playful bow, he gestured to the entrance of their small shelter, "After you, Q."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, I cannot promise the next chapter will be up soon. 
> 
> Life is getting in the way. Isn't that always the way it goes? 
> 
> I'm looking for more stable employment, so the leisure time I was using between class and work to write is being devoured by job hunting and throwing my CV everywhere. 
> 
> With luck, I'll have a new job soon and can get back having leisure time being used for actual leisure activities, which includes writing.


	9. Out of the River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A white cat appears.

As Bond stepped out of the holt, the gelid river slammed into his shins. "How far are downriver are the gore crows?" Bond queried as he took an experimental step against the powerful current. The rushing water furled about his legs in protest, nearly sloshing into his boots. Making their way back to the muddy escarpment they had used to enter the river would be an arduous task, but if gore crows were near, it would be the safest option.

"Quite far," a dry voice supplied from above them.

The now-ensorcelled backsword flashed into the agent's hand, and the agent scanned the bank from whence the voice had arisen, seeking out its source. Abstractly, Bond noted the Charter marks Q had imbued into the blade briefly flowed across its surface before they vanishing into the metal once again, as if to remind and reassure him of their presence. If he had not been focused on locating the source of the sound, Bond would have taken another look at the blade, and perhaps even attempted to puzzle out the spells he did not recognize at first glance, but, as it was, his gaze did not deviate from the riverbank.

Q spun to face the riverbank as well, but, inexplicably, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting did not adopt any sort of defensive posture, nor did he draw his own enchanted weapon.

"They seem to be following a tree," the voice continued, the last word slightly distorted by a yawn. Despite the lassitude pervading its tone, there was an unnatural, inhuman element to it, and a faint, oddly muffled hint of Free Magic that sent an instinctive shiver up Bond's spine which had absolutely nothing at all to do with the icy river enveloping his legs.

Motion high above caught his eye. Something was shifting the new, spring leaves of a hulking mulberry tree as it slithered through the green canopy.

Bond readied himself for an attack, securing his footing as best he could on the slippery river floor. "Show yourself!" the agent called into the tree.

A white cat dropped from a lofty tree branch, where it had been mostly concealed by the mulberry's young leaves, and landed on a thick, crooked bough. The feline's green eyes flicked over Bond and his drawn sword. In a dismissive and deprecating tone, it quite clearly spoke to the agent, "Lower your voice. Do you want to alert the entire forest of your whereabouts?" It trotted a few feet along the sturdy bough, and bounded easily onto another branch below.

"What in the Charter—?" Bond stared at the feline. With the exception of message hawks, Bond knew of no Charter spell that allowed an animal the power of speech, and message hawks had no real mastery over language; they were merely granted the ability to regurgitate a recorded message.

"Mogget!" Q exclaimed, a mixture of emotions plain in both his expression and his voice. Primarily, Bond defected relief, but he also caught an undercurrent of wariness in the otherwise merry greeting. "What are you doing here?"

The feline leapt gracefully across a few more branches until it landed on a limb that hung over the river and allowed the creature to stand approximately a meter above the two men. "I could ask you the same," the cat drawled as it took in their muddy, rumpled appearance with a disparaging gaze. "From the message hawk you sent, I was under the impression you would be undertaking some sort of rescue, not be in need of one yourself."

Bond looked from the feline to his sodden Quartermaster. Q was obviously familiar with the animal, and, as it was not showing any signs of hostility towards the either of the men, Bond relaxed his posture. However, he did not sheath his weapon.

Q sighed heavily, “I’ll explain later. What news, Mogget?” His keen, dark eyes were fixed upon the feline expectantly.

"Several hours after the message hawk you sent from the Clayr's Glacier reached the House, another message hawk from the Clayr arrived. This one had an 'urgent message for the Abhorsen-in-Waiting,'" the cat relayed. "Awful timing, those witches have," it added disdainfully. "If they'd seen whatever it is they've seen a bit sooner, they could have told you while you were still working on your little project in that deplorable mound of ice."

Q’s expression flattened. It was a look the agent had begun to recognize as the one the young Quartermaster wore when containing annoyance. "What did the Clayr's message say?" he prompted impatiently.

"I don't know," the feline's tail swished, disturbing a few leaves in its irritated lash. "It wouldn't tell me anything other than that the message was for you and that it's urgent. The hawk is spelled; it won't speak the message unless you're there."

The Abhorsen-in-Waiting ran a hand down his face in exasperation, "I'll have to remind them you are permitted to receive my messages and convey them to me."

"I doubt they'll listen," the cat responded. "I've told you before: others don't trust as nearly as readily as you do, dear Q," the endearment and title were spoken in a languid purr. Its eyes caught the sunlight through the shifting leaves and gleamed like brilliant emeralds. In a cheerfully portentous tone, the feline added, "One day, your faith in the virtue of others might get you into trouble... or prevent you from getting _out_."

Bond privately agreed, and made a mental note to inform M that Q needed more training against nonmagical human foes. The Abhorsen-in-Waiting was undeniably an extraordinarily powerful Charter mage, and proficient in fighting the Dead—even without the use of his necromantic bells. However, by the Quartermaster's own admission, he had not been entirely certain Bond was an agent until sometime during the previous night, yet Q had left himself vulnerable to potentially fatal harm on numerous occasions before that point. Even if most of his work with MI was done behind the scenes, he was an important figure within the organization, and needed to be more cautious.

"In any case, I did not know when you would complete your little excursion—which, I can see, is going positively _swimmingly_ ," it added, in a tone that was equal parts sarcasm and amusement, "or if you intended to pay a visit to the House afterwards, so, as a courtesy, I am here to inform you of the urgent message awaiting you, and remind you of the other things piling up on your desk."

The House to which they were referring to was doubtlessly Abhorsen's House, a place Bond himself had never been, but had seen from a distance. It was built like a walled-off fortress upon an island that rose out of the mighty river Ratterlin at the cusp of the Long Cliffs, where the river cascaded to the lowlands below in a torrential waterfall.

Q's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Why would they send a message to the House when they knew I was coming here?"

"You will either have to go to the House or return to the witches' ice palace to find out," the cat responded. It scratched behind its ear, and Bond noticed a thin, red leather collar around the small animal's snowy-furred neck. Even from this distance, Bond thought he could see a few Charter marks on the leather briefly come to life as the animal shifted the collar with its scratching. There was a bell on the collar as well, strangely silent despite the feline's movement.

"What aren't you telling me?" Q asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"I _may_ have some theories as to what the message might contain," the cat answered reluctantly, "but this is neither the time nor the place to discuss them. The gore crows may be distant, but they and the necromancer who summoned them are not the only danger to you in these woods.

Evidently satisfied with the cat's response—at least for the moment—Q turned to Bond and motioned to the feline, "007, this is Mogget. Mogget, this is agent 007."

"Bond. James Bond," the agent formally introduced himself on instinct. Moments later, he could not help feeling a bit foolish for introducing himself to a cat with verbal propriety whilst standing knee-deep in an ice-cold river.

"Like you, James Bond, I have several names, but, at present, I am known as Mogget," the cat stated, raising himself up and puffing out his fluffy chest, "loyal servant to the Abhorsen." As Bond was presented with a clearer view of the bell hanging from the enchanted red leather collar, the agent was able to recognize it for what it was: a miniature replica of one of the Abhorsen's seven necromantic bells. "I would _love_ to assist you and the Abhorsen-in-Waiting out of that dreadfully cold river, if you would only be so kind as to loosen my collar. It would be a shame to let such a fine piece become water damaged."

"I don't think so," Bond replied. From the distance, he could not make out any of the Charter marks that had shone on the collar, but he knew better than to touch anything remotely associated with an Abhorsen's bells.

Mogget huffed a small sigh, "I suppose MI's attack dogs aren't all selected for brawn alone after all... though you wouldn't know it from looking. Pity."

"Excuse me?" Bond's grip on the hilt of the backsword tightened.

"You're trained to follow orders and attack on command, are you not?" the cat asked innocently.

Before Bond could respond, Q stepped between the two. "Mogget, behave," he said, with a harsh look directed at the cat, and then turned to Bond to expound upon the cat's introduction, "Mogget is a creature of Free Magic and ancient power—the most powerful I have ever known—but he is bound by the collar he wears to serve the Charter, and compelled to aid the Abhorsen. If his collar were removed, his first priority would be to exact revenge upon those he has been forced to serve. First the Abhorsen, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, any successors, and then the very Charter itself."

Throughout Q's ominous elucidation, Mogget sat placidly on the tree branch, the tip of its tail twitching from time to time.

"That being said," Q continued, "You can put away your sword. The trouble Mogget can cause is currently limited to what he can muster with his tongue and claws, the former being the more dangerous of the two."

Bond gave Q a firm nod and finally sheathed his weapon, and then asked with genuine curiosity, "If he has the potential to be so dangerous, why isn't he... erm... more bound? Can't Free Magic creatures be contained in glass bottles or dry wells?"

"Or crystal coffins?" Mogget continued the list Bond had started, "Or silver-chained—"

"Quiet, Mogget," Q interrupted the cat, "you know I would never throw you down a well, and I will see to it no one ever repeats the mistakes Kalliel made."

"Do not make promises you cannot keep," Mogget huffed, "Your lenience is not a sentiment shared by many of your relatives, and they would argue Kalliel’s actions were no mistake."

"It isn't lenience," Q replied reasonably. "If it was, you'd have thumbs."

"Who is Kalliel?" Bond asked quizzically.

Q turned back to Bond, "Kalliel was the twelfth Abhorsen. He did keep Mogget more 'contained,' as you put it, but," the Abhorsen-in-Waiting glanced up at the cat, "despite the reason he provides his assistance, locking someone up after generations of service seems a poor way to express due gratitude."

"You might want to consider granting me thumbs. I could pull you out of there if I had a bit more reach and dexterity," Mogget said smoothly, grasping at the air below him with a paw.

"No," Q said. "You see? I'm not lenient."

"Have it your way," Mogget gave a dour sniff and pulled himself back into a seated position, "wet, cold, and covered in mud."

Q gave a long-suffering sigh, but continued speaking to the agent, "Not only would locking him away be an enormous breach of common courtesy, but it would be a gross waste of a valuable resource."

Mogget apparently decided batting at a dragonfly was more interesting to him than the conversation below. The feline certainly did not appear to be a creature of ancient wisdom or great power, but Bond knew better than most that appearances could be deceiving.

"He possesses more knowledge than any human could possibly hope to learn in a single lifetime, and, even if he isn't always immediately forthcoming with all pertinent information," Q said pointedly, and paused to look directly at Mogget for emphasis; the statement regarding Mogget's penchant for omission was clearly meant to reprimand the cat-shaped creature just as much as it was meant to provide information to Bond, "to keep him in locked up would be like throwing a book down a well: a grievous waste of accumulated knowledge."

Mogget continued to bat at the insect hovering around the budding leaves upon the mulberry branch as if he was paying no heed whatsoever to the conversation, until Q's gaze shifted away. His green eyes then met Bond's and he gave the agent a mischievous wink.

Bond trusted the Abhorsen-in-Waiting was well aware the of the creature's habits, so he quashed both the inclination to point out Mogget's actions and his mounting desire to throw something at the little beast. The unease the agent had initially felt when the creature first spoke had faded. Like a quick needle prick, he was faintly reminded of it whenever the cat spoke, but the sensation no longer caused the instinctive startle it had first elicited.

“Mogget, did you see a way out of the river anywhere?” Q asked, looking around at the steep, slick banks separating the icy river from the forest above.

“The bank becomes less steep just past that bend downriver,” Mogget responded. “You and your dog should be able to make it out from there.”

“I'm not the one wearing a collar,” Bond countered.

"Simply because one cannot see something does not mean it is not there," Mogget replied smoothly. Before Bond could retaliate, the cat leapt elegantly from the branch and onto the shore, informing Q as he disappeared from sight, “I will make sure the area around the bend is clear.”

"I think Kalliel had the right idea," Bond glowered, picturing the cat leisurely making his way to the rendezvous point bathed in the full sunlight, rather suffering the shady chill within the confines of the steep riverbanks.

"Mogget means well," Q chuckled, and started gingerly making his way downriver. "If you treat him kindly, he will return the favor."

"If you say so," Bond replied skeptically, falling into step behind the Quartermaster. It was much easier going than fighting the current back, and, in daylight, one could estimate the depth of the water before taking a step, so holding onto protruding roots and rocks for support was no longer a necessity. However, the footing was still precariously slippery, so it was still relatively slow going.

"Besides," Q said reasonably, "I'm more comfortable knowing someone is keeping an eye on him."

"Yes, there is that," Bond conceded, "but what if someone does remove his collar?"

"Only someone in the Abhorsen’s line of succession can remove his collar," Q said, which did relieve Bond to hear. While Bond had no intention of going anywhere near Mogget's collar, he recognized the bell for what it was. Others might not, and it was comforting to know there were safeguards to protect a naïve, unsuspecting citizen from releasing the creature, "and if his collar is removed, his binding can be renewed, but only by the Abhorsen or Abhorsen-in-Waiting." Q slid the glove off his right hand and gestured to the silver ring on his index finger. In the light of day, the gemstone's color was revealed: a deep, bloody crimson. The ruby glinted as it caught rays of sun, and Bond saw the jewel was held between what looked like a pair of claws, "This ring can be used in conjunction with Saraneth," Q touched the second largest pocket on his bandolier to indicate the bell associated with the name, "to renew the binding. I know how it is done, but I have never performed the deed myself."

"Performed the deed yourself?" Bond echoed. "You mean his collar has actually been removed before?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes. Many times, in fact," Q answered, as he replaced the glove on his hand. "Twice by our present Abhorsen in the past decade."

"Why?" Bond gaped. Of all people, the Abhorsen should know the hazards of releasing a Free Magic being.

"Mogget is... How can I put this?" the Quartermaster paused pensively, "possessive. He will not allow another to take an Abhorsen's life when he is present. He wants the pleasure of vengeance for himself and will fight in order to secure it."

"If he can't kill you, no one can?" Bond asked.

"That's it, yes," Q said. "Customarily, the Abhorsen keeps the ring, and responsibility as custodian of Mogget, until she or he passes on the title, but the present Abhorsen made an exception." Q gave a slightly chagrined smile, "I asked to borrow it so many times in order to try to puzzle out how exactly it—and Mogget's collar—function that eventually she told me to just keep it."

"Did you figure it out?" Bond asked. If anyone could, it would be someone with the combined Blood of a Wallmaker and an Abhorsen.

Q shook his head, "No, but the research was not fruitless." He gestured to Bond’s concealed knife, "Some of the spells on your knife were discovered in the process of trying."

Bond nodded in appreciation. As they slogged along, he pondered the circumstances which lead to the bizarre intermingling of Bloodlines that resulted in Q's unusual set of aptitudes and abilities.

When they finally rounded a sharp river bend, they saw the bank was much less steep, and evolved into a gradual slope a few meters ahead. There, the men would be able to exit the river out without much difficulty.

“Took you long enough,” meowed a familiar voice. Sitting on a rock at the edge of the gentle incline was Mogget, the end of his tail twitching mildly as he sat in the sun, waiting for the Quartermaster and the agent.


End file.
